When I opened this place, I had high hopes. Father was always against it, repeating the same old saying that "I will become treasurer of other people secrets, and grow too old for listening to them" and mother didn't really help with her vision of "dirty people" vomiting all around her Damask roses in the garden next to my pub, that was, oh what a coincidence, in my backyard. Looking at that from today's perspective, they were actually right, but parents will be parents. If you don't resist them you cease to exist as a person, and if I, by any case said to them that they were right, they would have a weapon "I told you so" to use on me for the rest of my life. Sadly, mother did not live to see next spring-blossoming of her garden, because she died three months after the opening, and father, sadly, became one of my frequent guests, drowning his sorrow in most expensive bourbon I had on my shelves. But, hey, we were family, I could not say to him that he is ruining my business, and using "Mother told me so" on him vomiting in our garden would be too cruel. I knew they wanted best for me, but along the way, their own problems drew their attention from directing me in a „prosperous way“, so my rebel spirit showed it's full potential. I left dentistry faculty one year before finishing it because I really could not stand the fakeness of upper-burgeois class that was surrounding me and expecting me to fit right in their buttholes and accepting that as my life-fate and goal.

 And here I am. The short version of life, depicting drunk people in the roles of our friends is happening in front of my eyes with few or regular customers holding themselves for the bar to not fall in alcohol coma from their barstools. I realized that there are no happy stories in a place like this, and as soon as you learn to accept other people's life tragedies without an ounce of emotion, they will easily say everything to you. They don't need compassion, they need a passive listener, who will take the burden from their life-warehouse and decide what will he do with it, throw it on the way out of a pub, or save it like an article in the „Encyclopedia of street knowledge“. After a few hours of empty drunk conversation, the guy that seemed really familiar to me enters the bar. He decided to sit on a barstool that is opposite me, while I was washing the glasses because the dishwasher is broken again, which is kind of my fault because I let my father do the repair-work. Man who could not iron a shirt or talk without my mother helping him is the reason why I am fighting with skin-eating detergent for the past 3 weeks. But, I said already, I am not blaming him. He needs to feel useful, so I let him. We are family, and I love him more than my dentist-to-be gently hands.

When I raised my head, I noticed the guy was looking at me. Out of all people in a room, I think I reminded him of a young candle that is slowly burning in the darkness of destiny. He offered me a cigarette, which I gladly accepted, and then he told me the next round is on him, which always made me smile because it is kind of ironic that people pay a drink for a guy that holds the place. I am kind of used to this scenario, and I know that after the well known cigarette-drink routine, he will start talking. This scenario is the same with every "director" from this place.

 Today he got out of jail. Ten years in prison. Before that, he worked as a handyman, twelve hours a day, for seven years. He was subtenant all his life, and for five years of his marriage, he and his wife didn't manage to have a baby. That desired baby, the only light on the margin of both his life and mental health did not turn on, his only wish in broken life, where visions of bright future were buried a long time ago, could not come true. Then he started drinking. He pointed the finger at the bar and said that this exact place is the place where he drank his first whiskey. Then, he continued the story. After drinking for some time, he became violent. That is characteristic of all people who stand on the verge of their downfall. But he said that he was never violent to his wife. Every problem he had, every fight he solved right in front of this place, and then, as he was saying that, I realized that I know him. Through smokey cigarette fog of a bar, memories started to crawl in my brain, and I realized that a long time ago, I have seen him and he stayed like a little scar in my brain because inn-keepers never forget faces, only names (and that is on purpose). I nodded my head subtly telling him that I am listening and he continued. His drinking lasted a few years, encouraged with a bad job and sad eyes of his beloved wife whenever she saw him. She knew she was the reason for his misery, but she could not do anything but unconditionally love him. After some time, suddenly, luck smiled at him. His wife was pregnant. I saw a little grin on his face, while he was saying this, and then it suddenly disappeared. Like all small places, my town was no different, so the stories and gossip started to spread. In this same pub, everybody started talking among themselves that his wife cheated on him, and with who she did that. His violent side, taking its toll in front of this pub spread on his whole being. He felt the weight of this place narrowing around him and gossips crushing his spirit. He went home drunk and started beating his pregnant wife. He beat her to death and continued until her face was unrecognizable. I got shivers while he was saying this, and like that wasn't enough, with teary eyes he pointed his fists towards me showing me his scarred knuckles. He proved life that he was stronger than it, he didn't let other people be his puppeteers while he dances like a marionette.

 And then life laughed at him once more. A few months after going to prison he got information that baby was actually his, and that pub gossip was only gossip, just jealousy of ruined people on an ounce of happiness in somebody's world. Their words became a weapon in the arms of an unstable man.

 He finished his story with two sentences. „You don't have anything to do here, this place will ruin your life as it did to rest of us. Life is shit, you live like you could never imagine, and the things you imagine, you will probably never live.“

Then he got up and left and I just watched him slowly taking on his coat and taking the exit. I watched him as he slowly walked to the corner, smoking cigarettes in his long coat like a noir character. I could not think clearly for an hour after that. After smoking 10 cigarettes in a row, and saying cold farewell to the last customer, I made my decision. I locked everything, turned off the lights, and flipped the open/closed sign to closed, knowing that I will never flip it again. I realized that I lost ten years of my life in this place, and it was nothing comparing to the guy that lost 3 lives sitting here, watching me pursue my dream that was now a big pile of ashes.

 My father was laying wasted in our Damask roses, so I picked him up like a child that he actually was.

 „Where are we going, son?“ – he mumbled.

 „Home dad, home. – I whispered and kissed him on the forehead.

Next summer, Damask roses blossomed like never before, and in their pink color, I swear, for a second, I saw my mother smile.