-1"Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for."
-Dag Hammarskjold
Chapter 1: Just a Little Pub in Ireland
It was one of those days which that little island country was famous for, a day of wet, cold, inescapable misery. The sky was angry and gray and lashing out at the Emerald Isle with torrents of cold stinging rain and gusts of frigid wind. The streets of Belfast were empty save a few people bent against the gales, determined to get home before the night snuck up upon them without a sunset.
Yet inside the pub it was cozy and warm and dry. Mugs of Guinness were passed around, and all laughed and smiled as the raised the glasses of black liquid to their happy lips, crying "Slainte! Slainte!" to each other before sipping and licking the foam happily from their lips. They clapped each other on the back, danced, sang, and in general had fun. All were happy to be out of the rain and cold and with friends.
All except one.
One man sat in the corner, trench coat still wrapped around his soaked body. He'd chosen a wise position, one in which he was tucked away from the excitement and thus left in peace, and he wasn't hit by the cold outside air when an individual seeking shelter decided to "stop in for a quick drink"- usually an hour-long affair.
He resembled a rather irritated and wet cat. Freezing drops of water dripped off the locks of his jet black and onto the worn wooden table. He shivered and looked absolutely pathetic as his glass-colored eyes stared longingly out at the smiling and laughing faces and as he drew his drenched coat more closely about him. All he wanted to do was go home.
Unfortunately, that was impossible. He'd left his home in France in a vain attempt to escape the grief and destruction his family was facing and failing to overcome. His world was coming apart around him, and the only thing he could do was bolt like a coward, like his worthless father.
His sister, his beautiful, gentle sister with the kindest soul he had ever known, had been hit by a car while she was walking home from work. No one saw what happened or knew who it was. There were no leads for the police, and it was only from the autopsy that Germaine's cause of death was discovered- blunt force trauma and internal bleeding consistent with the patterns of being slammed by a car.
His mother had been shell-shocked by the news and had withdrawn deeply into herself, trying to cope with the fact that her beautiful little Germaine, her only daughter, her firstborn, was gone. Her husband, Damon, had called in sick to work and stayed home, moping about the house as usual, expecting sympathy for someone else's pain, or, in this case, death. Jack's hands clenched and he had to stop from slamming a fist down on the Irish table in rage lest he attract attention. He resented his father with an intense passion. He'd never been there. Never. Not for him, not for his mother, not for his sister.
Jack's dislike of the man had actually made him and Germaine very close. She'd pretty much raised him as his father "tried" to get a job but instead came home late time and time again, smelling of unemployment and alcohol and anger, which he took out on them both, sometimes his wife as well. This too made Jack unimaginably angry, for his mother had worked herself to the bone supporting her two children. She'd work any job, any hours just to compensate for her husband. She was a peace maker by nature, and jumped to the defense of her husband whenever one of the kids made an angry comment, but she'd comfort them when they were black and blue and tell them to "put on a brave face" and she showed them how to hide their bruises.
So Jack and Germaine learned quickly that they wanted to be anyone but their father. They worked hard in school, never touched alcohol, picked up jobs as soon as they hit legal labor age and turned everything over to their mother. Germaine had been picking up her father's endless slack when she'd been killed. Jack ground his teeth as he remembered the pain they'd all endured, the work they'd done so his father could say "sorry" like it was a free pass and keep "trying."
Through this hardship Jack also learned that Germaine was the only constant in his life. His mother often worked late and when she was home she was doing housework or leaving to run errands. Thinking back, Jack couldn't remember a time when his mother hadn't been completely exhausted. It was Germaine who walked him to school. It was Germaine who played with him, no matter what game his young mind had thought of. It was Germaine who'd walked him to doctors' appointments and who had taught him to look both ways before crossing the street. Germaine, who pushed him on the swings, was gone. Germaine, who defended him from the mean kids at school, was gone. Germaine, his sister, who had raised him. Germaine, who had raised him, was gone.
A few wet salty drops of water landed on the pub's table. He didn't really try and stop them, but just doggedly wiped them away as they came. He couldn't push her out of his mind. Everything reminded him of her. The people laughing reminded him how she used to laugh, how she used to smile. It made him a wreck and he soon found himself pushed as far against the wall as he could get, sobbing. No one heard him over the music and joy that their own lives brought them.
His life was gone. He was broke, alone, shattered, and scared. Above all, he was wet.
Hours dragged themselves along, and slowly the customers left, one by one, to brave the storm on their way home. Jack remained in his soaking corner, fermenting in his own bitterness, fighting his own storm, but not getting where he wanted to be. His crying had left him, as had the energy to do much of anything but sit and watch the people. His head pounded and throbbed, his eyes swelled, his mouth dried. He thought of Germaine, and how life wasn't fair, even in the way it killed you.
Soon the pub was empty except for the staff and Jack, who shivered, for the warm atmosphere he'd looked in on had vanished. A waitress wiped the counter with a wet rag, hot so it steamed as it cleaned the wooden bar top. In the back he could hear the sounds of clinking dishes and running water. The rain still assaulted the windows.
Suddenly, the calm, cool aura of the pub was disrupted as the waitress looked up from her wiping and smiled at the sound of the door opening, the bell above it tinkling, and the figure hung up a wet, dripping coat. The waitress put her hands on her thin and bony hips and proclaimed in a thick Irish accent with a laugh,
"Well, I do declare, Anora, you're wetter than a drowned rat. Should I be makin' ya some tea, then?"
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Wow, this chapter took me a long time. Sorry it took awhile, but I've been spending a lot of time with my horse, and I kept tweaking this chapter. The next one will be up soon, I promise! Thanks for reading!