Jack

Chapter Six: Painted on a Canvas

"The fire reflects in my eyes. Do you see? The dead are in everything, Jack. They see all that is within us, and that is how they choose. This fire in my eyes, my anger, is why I was chosen." Jack's father cracked his knuckles and took a deep breath. A pack of coyotes howled mockingly nearby, as if taunting the humans to leave their sanctuary and give chase. 

Jack looked up at his father expectantly. It had only been days since his enlightenment, yet he already saw the man with new eyes. A new level of respect he never knew could exist now filled his being. What he saw now was a lethal, vastly intelligent being with worlds of knowledge to share. He did not yet know how his father knew what he did. 

His father opened his mouth to speak. His voice rang clear through the night, puncturing the sky with every powerful word. "There are some who seek to understand the dead as they understand, Jack. There are some who are tasked with a purpose that will stay burdened upon them throughout their entire lives, and into those beyond. We two are tasked with such a burden. 

"There is a dark, twisted power among the dead. We swore an oath, you and I, to them and their dark power. In exchange for our lives, we are gifted and yet cursed-it will be up to you and no one else to decide how you take it. 

"We, however, are only one of many. This happens all across the world, Jack. Someone is always saved from the darkness of death to brave the task of Understanding. This time it was us. I know you think it was unfair that your mother had to die. If only you knew how torn I feel...she was precious to me. I suppose you still think my act of cruelty all those years ago was out of drunkenness or anger. I will not deny that it was partly that, but it was more about sparing her, or me, or you the chance to cry over one more loved one, ripped from the canvas of the world by a careless hand...and yet, here I am, crying for your mother and your sister and all the undeserving dead." 

He looked at his son with fresh tears on his cheeks, each a globe of liquid fire on his bearded countenance. His skin was stretched as taut as a drum across his cheeks. He appeared as though he were naught but a skeleton without the grin; the vision was hauntingly amusing to Jack. Jack stared back at his father, confused. His eyes had been opened yet again. It had been difficult enough to accept his father as an intelligent person. Now he was being forced to realize that the one person who had turned his childhood into a twisted hell actually cared about him. Before he even realized it, Jack was crying. 

They were thick, heavy sobs, the kind made for purging a powerful emotion. Jack's emotion was that of joy. A confused joy, it was; not blind euphoria, but a conflicted thing. He wept for all of the bruises, cuts and broken bones inflicted by a cruel hand. He wept for his unborn sister, deprived of life by a selfish fear. He wept most of all for his mother and her terrible end at the hands of fate. It was too bad that Jack did not yet know how this memory would affect his life for years to come. 

A large, familiar hand touched his shoulder. He instinctively squeezed his eyes shut and flinched; then he realized with a start that he was unharmed. It was a kind touch, such as he had never felt before. He pondered this as it drew him close. Jack fell asleep in the embrace of the man who could not be, and yet was, his father.