I live in the middle of a flat nowhere, a tiny crevasse in a corner of the Earth. Hibben, Maine – population 207. If you're thinking of visiting there for the "panoramic views of the ocean" you can do yourself a favor by saving your money and not booking the trip. We'd all be better off if Hibben didn't even exist.

I wish it didn't.

My family is the most hated family in the entire town. My parents had run into some money once my father's fishing business took off, and they loved to show it off. They had an enormous house built at the very top of the hill, where the cliff's edge dropped off – a three-story monster looming over the sea down below.

You could call my parents conceited, arrogant and vain. I could think of a few more colorful words to describe them, myself. But who was I to say anything, right? If I was associated with them, I was just as bad as them. I consider myself genetically cursed.

I never cared about the money. It never brought me the satisfaction that it brought my parents. I just don't see how owning shiny things and wearing flashy clothes could fill a person with joy.

If money truly buys happiness – then why am I angry all the time?


It was a scorching hot day. My face felt like it was melting. I tilted my head towards the sky and shut my eyes. I could see my eyelids were glowing red from inside the sockets. I groaned as my head began pounding from the heat. I wish I had brought my hat down to the pier with me.

"Gray!" My father slapped me across the back, making a hollow thump. "Get your head out of the clouds and start gutting."

I opened my eyes, seeing spots. I sighed and reached for the knife in my pocket. In front of me was a wooden table stained with blood and other unidentifiable substances. To my right was a barrel of struggling fish, splashing and writhing around for the last few moments of their lives.

What was it like to die that way – lying there, defenseless, having nowhere to go?

I think I knew.

The distant crunching of gravel caught my father's attention. His gaze averted to our driveway where a black vehicle was pulling in.

"Oh," I mumbled, glancing at the man stepping out of the vehicle. I felt a wave of dread wash over me.

It was my brother.

"I'll finish the rest of the barrels. Go help Peter with his luggage. He's here visiting for the next few days."

"Nobody told me that." I said to myself, shoving my knife back into my pocket.

I started up the steep stairs from the docks up to our house. I could see Peter leaning against the side of his vehicle, watching me. He was smirking as he tossed me the keys. I felt his judgmental gaze lock onto my filthy gutting clothes.

"I see you still don't have a real job." Peter followed me around to the trunk of his car.

"I see you're still an asshole." I muttered, jamming the key into the keyhole and opening the trunk.

He had packed enough suitcases and bags for an entire village. How did I get stuck carrying all this garbage upstairs? I scowled at Peter, who laughed. He patted me on the shoulder, and headed towards the porch where my mother stood. She was smiling as she hugged him tightly, and then ushered him inside. I heard the door latch click, and I let out a breath I didn't realize I had been holding in.

I heard myself growl as I launched the last suitcase onto the bed in Peter's room. Standing in his room, I was reminded of my entire childhood when Peter would tease, taunt and torture me until I was either bloody or crying. He had always been the golden child. My parents had had him, and were trying for the perfect baby girl when they got me instead. I felt like an outsider in my own home. And of course, it worsened when my parents did finally get their "perfect" daughter.

Perfectly rotten.

I was nine and Peter was twelve when Paulie was born. She looked just like my mother, and became my father's entire world. While our mother worshipped Peter and our father worshipped Paulie, I worshipped any alone time I could get.

Gracie was born a few years later, and I found myself spending more time with her than anyone else. She rarely cried, unlike Paulie, and sometimes I could make her smile. The fact that she didn't look anything like either of my parents was an added bonus.

Someone hollered from downstairs, dragging me from my thoughts. I sighed and headed down towards the kitchen.


"So I told him, 'If you are given a chance, take it. If it changes your life, let it'." Peter bragged. "And he didn't commit suicide!"

Our mother gasped and our father began to clap. Paulie giggled while Grace simply stared, peas smeared all over her face. I watched Peter absorbing the attention, loving every moment.

I felt sick.

"You're a hero!" gushed our mother, beaming with pride. "Our baby boy!"

I bit the inside of my cheek. Baby boy, my ass!

"Um, Gray?" Peter grinned. "Some more cranberries?"

My eyes flickered to Peter, and then to the table, where our mother had prepared a giant feast for this joyous occasion. The dish in which the cranberries were was empty.

"They're all gone." I told him, returning my attention to the mashed potatoes on my plate.

"Gray," Our mother scolded. "Go into the kitchen and get the man some more cranberries!"

I slowly stood up, pushing my chair back in with a little more force than necessary. I tried to focus on deep breathing as to not completely lose it in front of my entire family. Somehow I made it into the kitchen without punching anyone or anything. I shut the French doors behind me and pressed my forehead against the glass.

Soon, the hum of conversation picked up again from the dining room. I was the only one to hear the phone ring.

I pressed the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

"Hi there!"

The man's voice was loud, and I winced. He didn't sound familiar at all. His accent was different than the locals.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"Well, I'm not sure! Is this the home of a Mr. P.R. Hearn?"

I told him that was my father.

"Oh, wonderful!" I could practically hear the man smiling. "I am the mayor of a small town. My name is Thomas."

And? I thought.

"Well, you see, I ordered a large shipment of fish to be sent here on Friday, but the man in charge of loading and unloading will only be here next week. Would it be possible for one of your employees to get the job done?"

All of our workers were on holiday. It was the only holiday they got. There was no way my father could convince any of them to go. It's not like he would pay them, either.

Maybe I could go.

"Um," I muttered. "I - … Yeah, we can send someone."

"Excellent! They will be reimbursed, I assure you! The boat will arrive in the morning around nine. Goodbye!"

Click.

And that was that.

"Gray!" Peter hollered from the dining room. "The cranberries!"

I swung open the door to the pantry and pulled out the dustiest can of cranberries I could find. I didn't bother checking the expiry date.

The can opener was giving me a hard time. I must've cranked it too hard, because before I knew it, the lid was off and then cranberries were spewing out of the can onto the floor.

"Shit," I mumbled, crouching down to observe the damage.

The red jelly had soaked up some dust, dirt and a few stray hairs. I used my hand to scoop it up and slap it in a dish.

"Well, if it's cranberries he wants," I grinned. "It's cranberries he'll get."

I glided into the dining room feeling like a million bucks.

"The cranberries are served." I smiled as Peter looked up at me.

"You know," He furrowed his brow and then shrugged. "I don't really want them anymore!"

My smile faded.

"Oh, Peter, before I forget – " Our father wiped at his mouth with a napkin. "The air conditioning in your room is broken. You can take Gray's room until it's fixed."

I scoffed. "Where am I supposed to sleep!?"

"On the floor." I heard Peter whisper.

"You can use the guestroom, Gray." Our mother rolled her eyes. "Quit being so dramatic."

"You've got to be kidding me! It's like a million degrees in there!" I turned to my father.

"Does it look like I'm kidding?" He snapped.


I soon found myself lying on damp sheets in a room hotter than Hell. It smelled like must. I always hated this room. Who would paint an entire room orange?

Kill me.

I turned my head to the right and found myself staring at a photograph of an old man. He had wild tufts of white hair crowning around a gleaming bald spot. He stood in front of a little shop that read 'Saibara's Blacksmith'. He didn't look familiar. But I doubt my parents would keep a picture of some random old guy if they didn't know him. Hell, I don't even think they had any pictures of me in this house, so he had to be somewhat important to them.

I didn't sleep that night. And by morning, I had made up my mind. I would be the one to make the delivery, and I wouldn't be coming back.