Obliviate (Please)

It's been several years since my brother told me I should sit it out. He didn't scream or shout, his compassion was always the front of all emotions, but at the same time I felt betrayed. How could I obey my brother's abrupt request to stay when I was encouraged consistently to take a chance. 

The docks that I stand upon are beautiful. Beautiful and eerie. I find it peculiar how often those two descriptions coincide. But perhaps it was the low orange rays of light, spreading its arms across the shore, that bedazzled me to think such thoughts. The mind of a child. 

The mind of a magician actually. Ever since my brother introduced us to our father's one and only hobby. It never got as serious as the trick father did that turned water into wine, nor did it reach the level where we spent money on it, but my brother found us cards at the inn which I'd use with him. After work of course.

I swing my head to the ships on the left, just two floors below. I'd want to go there, perhaps make new friends or feel the hull of one of the encrusted vessels once more. My hand was batted with the end of a club for touching it, but not before I nimbly scaled the stairs. I never get to see or do anything that fun anymore. 

"Look alive, Billy. They'll just as soon let a rabid dog sneeze at them then let someone standing like that on board" My brother's voice, the vibrant authority and soft tone still fresh after all this time. I wonder if he had to grow that voice, or if it was just a byproduct of loss?

"You know we can't go back to the farm. It's just ruins, and all the meat is gone." I did not fully appreciate the irony of his words. "But I had a talk with our friend, and he says we can unload the next ship that comes in. Would you like that?" I smiled then; I envy now. 

It doesn't strike me as hazardous every time the boards creak underneath me. Nor does the smoke stir anything but annoyance to me as I stride to the fish house. It's been a while since I've eaten, but maybe they'll still accept my word after my sudden leave. I had the money, but maybe they would treat me like a phantom that they could not help. 

I'm still with The Flock though, the gang that took us in. Beyond providing shelter and giving me a badge of reverence, which is really hard to come by, they were my family. My brother made sure they remembered who I was to him. Together, we were a flock. Alone, we were just fish. 

Sometimes, I used to pretend to have my brother's voice when introducing myself, seeing if that got me any more respect. 

"The trout's 20? I'll take two. Don't forget the order. I don't want it mixed in with the bass." 

My brother just smiled. He did that a lot. 

"You sound like dad there. Or did too much smoke get in your lungs?" He joked. 

"How much longer are we going to be on hooks? How was dad this fearless?"

I remember the nickel he flipped with such remarkable dexterity, and the fluid way his palm swallowed its landing and produced a gold bullet. I couldn't decide which was more surprising: the trick or the bullet. I nearly forgot my question in my veneration.

"He shaved often." He said, "And he knew the ropes here better than anyone. For you and me, it's just a matter of doing what he did to get off his." 

It was right there that my brother considered us separate. I didn't even feel the agonizing void until the Flock told us we had to get some cargo to the second island off the coast. The Flock already had a plan formulated, and they didn't even need to consult me. How thoughtful. 

The number of excuses I came up with, sound and stupid, to come with him. He didn't seem to even acknowledge what I said, just standing with lips pursed and hands clutching his pockets. He gives me his gold ring, tells me it's his secret weapon. He didn't tell me what he would use for defense when I asked. He smiles one more time. His fearless optimism the last thing I remember from that day other than dread. 

It's been nearly a month since I heard. The powder magazine part of the cargo and the lack of competent soldiers on board was a terrible combination. The captain said that the canal was too narrow for an attack on the second island. For some reason, though, no one accounted for the island itself. 

One of the men from the Flock told me this, head hung and skin wrinkled, but no tears. 

My eyes had never hurt more than they did as I ran into the backstreets. I scolded myself silently in the pub, as if I somehow knew this was going to happen. 

I nearly cough after stepping off the boards through the smoke, but I conceal it as best I can. I stride forth, consistently on ceremony in case I was being watched. But the lights in the pub across the cobblestone street warn me not to progress. 

So I stop at the rail, pull out bullet that he gave me. I remember some coins whispering in my pocket as I pressed against the black rail, its surface perspiring. Perhaps I could make the transformation, turn the new back to old. One form of currency to another.

Peering into the three rings on the bullet's base, my entrancement almost made me lose all touch with reality. That is, until I was shouted back.

Beside the rail, the trio approached me with pistols. They ask me what I was doing on the docks without my papers, before I could even turn around. When I do, their faces go a dusty white. One of them murmurs to the others and they stepped forward. 

"Didn't recognize you at first." Said one, holstering his pistol with a twirl. 

"Ever need anything, don't be 'fraid' to ask boy. On your way now." 

I shifted my glance to the setting sun as they trudged off. Pity was a tool for the weak. Those that deserved it didn't want it, and I was among them. I brushed my hair out of my eyes and let my hand slide down my face. 

I really wish that I could tell them that I was staying. Perhaps I was going to, for a little while longer. But I know that I can't take revenge by using tools that have already failed. 

I learned this some time ago. 

"I need a shave."