The bench is wooden and as ancient as they look, gnarled from overexposure to the ocean air. An overcast day. Gloomy and a dull, sunless sky reins quiet except for the roaring waves far off to the horizon. A book. Red spine cracked with age hanging off the corner of the bench, wrapped loosely in paper. A lone shadow figure, wavering in the mist rolling off from the moors, shoulders stooped against the morning chill. Eddie Cumminskey, County Clare, Cliffs of Moher, approximately 7:02 am as he checked his watch. He must be getting old, exactly two minutes late.
Again.
A cigarette dangled from Eddie’s chapped lips, the smoke’s tail-end stretching up to the sky. Bending to pick up the book, gently unwrapping it from watered parchment to shove the waste into a deep trench pocket. He picked at the red, the chipped pieces fluttering to the grass before being whisked away into a finite existence revealing shocking white.
Blood.
Eddie Cumminskey was a gangster. A criminal. A Westie. A leader. A piece and part of the broken apart Hell’s Kitchen. Most of all, an Irishman. He was 72 years old now, skin long since lost its elasticity. Six decades of street war does that to a man, he guessed.
He had come out here to repent. To kill the last bit of the withering monster inside himself, ‘’The Butcher’’. Serving time in an upper New York prison, Cumminskey had learned the trade of butchery, allowing him to become a gruesome tool for his future lifestyle.
How to tear apart families.
How to shatter lives.
How to dispose.
Eddie ‘’The Butcher ‘’ Cumminskey.
The prison was worse than a circus and zoo combined. It’s more cursed than the outside world. A blood bath. Anyone who says contraband never reaches past the bars is only a cow-tongued loose-lipped fool. It was the monotonous kind of sordid torture, like tripping static on a repeating television. A grubby, windowless pit. The best way to keep a prisoner from escaping is to make sure they never know they’re in prison. If he has a conscience he will surely suffer for his mistakes. This will be a more sufficient punishment than prison.
Two men will look out a prison window; one will see mud and the other stars.
***
Jimmy Briar contemplated throwing himself off the Cliffs. Imagine how crazy it would be, the local police searching the stormy waters for a bloated body. Just for a moment. Just for a second. Until the same scorching need for a sort of revenge coursed through his crooked veins. He did not want to die, of course not. The mist swirled around him, maddening, like a raging scorpion.
He clenched his hand, the pewter ring digging itself into his hand like a solid reminder. Eyes cut across the landscape as if leading him down a path he had not seen before. There are always more paths than clues.
Approximately 7:05 am.
Jimmy began to trek his way along the well-trodden path, boots squishing into the softened peat. It had been raining for days, on and off as if to represent the storm brewing in the quiet town. Rumor had it that an old member of the Westies had been living here for a while. In a sleepy town, it would be the most interesting thing to have happened in years. Of course, he wouldn’t be surprised if it was true.
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In a sharp movement, he slapped his hand into the side of his head, a stinging pain flashing inside of his head like a badly nursed migraine. Soon, he was at the bench where a figure sat with their back turned like a closed door. He turned and when Jimmy saw his face, it all fell into place. It was like looking at his own. He was the explanation for every disappointment he’d experienced until then. It all made perfect sense. The dead ends he’d tread before, all lead Jimmy towards him.
‘’Dad?’’
***
Eddie stood, fingering the book between his hands. A quiet settled over them before he spoke. ‘’ There’s a job and you know, I’d always wanted to have your help. Your forgiveness.’’ Eddie turned, coughing as if to dislodge something in himself. ‘’I’m sorry. I’m so. Very. sorry.’’
***
"One moment I'm important, next minute I'm background at best, can't say which one I prefer. What's making my head spin are the transitions. I know everything is 'need-to-know' and 'last minute' for a reason, but there are days it feels like my brain cells have been randomized."
***
Eddie reached out to his shoulder, fingers fumbling, words fighting their way out of his mouth in a much shakier voice. ‘’’ Boy. You know I---’’
***
Jimmy cut him off, taking a choppy step back. Rage coating his face like thrown paint.
‘’Your words and your actions are divergent. I mean they pull in opposite directions as if your brain's narrator and navigator have entirely different ideas about the world. You talk the talk of the valiant protector, yet when push comes to shove I'm on my own. Over and over I'm left to my tormentors before they have their fill and throw me back to you. Either way, I've given up trying to figure you out. ’’ Voice echoing throughout the damp air as the sky opened up, thrashing them both more furiously than his words.
***
The rain drenched them, making their clothes stick to them worse than dog hair. But, Eddie would be heard. He would not let a 24-year-old , no matter who he was, tell HIM how to FEEL
‘’You love me with words, resent me with actions - actions that slip from you more easily than leaves from the fall trees. So why can't you just let me go? Is it pride? Guilt? Are you confused too? Or do you not see your actions for what they are? I'm just a ball bouncing, appearing free to the casual glancer yet always restrained by a pretty rope.’’ Eddie hardly ever raised his voice. Never. Yet, now it bounced off the rocks in a scream.
It was quiet.
‘’Jimmy?’’
His face crumbled.
Like a rabid animal, Briar threw himself at the older man. They tussled, a flurry of grabbing hands as suppressed pasts bubbled up inside of them. This fight has been a choreographed dance of destruction for so long, tearing them where they needed to heal. The time has come for some new moves. The time has come to use empathy instead of an armory. It's time to say the truths that have tortured them so that a new and better future can emerge.
Of course, that wouldn’t happen here.
They were too used to their old ideals. To fight like scrappy dogs over a bone. The world appeared to pass by in hours instead of minutes. Jimmy notices the minute detail of his ring smashing into the older man’s face. How the redness stood out against his shockingly pale face. How Eddie’s eyes widened when his foot slipped near the edge. When he tumbled. When he fell like a heavyweight off and over the cliff. How Jimmy stumbled, barely catching himself as his hands grounded into the ledge. A withering snake rose up from his stomach and the way his throat curdled as he emptied his stomach into the same ocean. How no sound was heard then and an emptiness settled over him.
Maybe he felt empty because we leave pieces of ourselves in everything we used to love. Sometimes we hate ourselves for the feelings we ignore, that we bury like the dead things under the ground. Maybe that’s the problem: we don’t listen to ourselves until it’s too late. And when it is over nothing defines us, other than until the moment that makes us feel free.