Ramblings from the tilde

The Writing On His Father's Hand

"Tell me...", babbled Skips, "tell me one thing, Frenchie."

"Stop that Frenchie shit, Skips. What do you want me to tell you?"

"Tell me that I will be able to forget about this."

"I won't tell you such thing."

"Oh, please, Frenchie. I... I will feel this sorrow for the rest of my life."

"Oh, you won't do that, either."

"I can't..." He really seemed to mean it.

"I will not lie to you and say it will be easy, man. Not even remotely easy. You will wake up in the middle of the night, Skips. You'll swim in a sea of sweat. Many times. You will feel a ghost whispering in one of your funny little ears. Whispering ugly things to you, Skips. You will cry a river, like Julie London sang. But one day, I cannot say if it will be next week or next month or in your sister's wedding, as I say, one day, you will wake up, you will start having your eggs or your cereal or whatever the fuck you use to have for breakfast, and you will realize that you had not remembered this mess for a couple of days. And then you'll be over it. And the next time it won't be a couple days, but four days, or four weeks, or whatever measure of time you can name. Putain, one day you won't even remember the details, or your father's writing, or the fucking dirty money, or all those pieces of shit. So just do it. Do it fucking now."

Skips shot the poor scumbag in the head. His face exploded like in a seedy B movie.

"Oh, Skips, sure you've made a pretty cute dish of Chicken Korma here. Now let's run as fast as we can."

Tires screeched nearby.