the lion tales

December 1992
     The snow was falling thick but ever-so-lightly like down in the immediate aftermath of a pillow fight. He trekked like he always trekked, ankle deep in freezing powder, searching. Silently searching. His seasoned skin absorbed the chill to the bone as he grew progressively weary from the hunt and longed for a laudable catch to assure him settle as he eagerly journeyed “home.” His mind was disarranged with the same thoughts that were always there to haunt him. He rarely got sufficient sleep due to the ghosts in his dreams that forced him to relentlessly recall the only night he ever allowed himself to regret.

October 1990
     He took his mouth from his glass to tell his son to bathe before bed then took another sip and continued to stare at the television with an impassive face. The moon shone through the window with a soft yellow tint accenting the glow on his face from the television. It was relatively early but fall was in full swing and night fell quickly those days. He was well into his second bottle of whiskey that evening which was usual dosage most nights. He spent a substantial amount of his meager income on liquor but didn’t seem to care. In fact, the only thing he cared about those days was his son that his wife had left him in care of when she ran off unannounced. No note, no word, no worries. She had grown tired of his drinking and carelessness and he knew it but did nothing to assess the situation. Her leaving only worsened his condition. He went from one bottle a night to two.
     His son was only four years old and as much as he knew he should and wanted to take care of him and pay him more attention than he knew what to do with, the alcohol would more often than not, deter him from doing so. His son frequently asked where his mother had been and his father seldom knew how to answer. He would change the subject or distract his son with something of interest. It had been six months since she abandoned them in the spring and as much as he wanted his son to forget her, he hadn’t.
     Only an hour had passed before he slipped into sleep, empty glass in hand and TV still bright. He found his son’s body the following morning; a sky-like shade of blue in the freezing bath water. He had slipped in the tub and drowned as his father slept on the couch, unaware, with a belly full of booze.

December 1990
     If any mail came to the house, it would be bills and letters from collection agencies more likely than not. On this day, amongst said bills was a sealed, blank envelope. It contained no address, neither his nor a return. He hesitated to open it as he tore the bills into pieces and threw them into his fireplace. He left the envelope on an end table overnight as he went about his usual business of drinking, thinking, and passing out. The next morning as he made his way downstairs for coffee, the envelope caught his eye and he decided to open it. He knew what it was and he wanted to get it over with.

I hope you fucking suffer for what you have done. You deserve nothing and I pray that’s exactly what you get.

September 1991
     “What does a man who’s lost everything have to live for?” He would continually ask himself this as he lay in bed drinking, trying to convince himself he had the courage to take his own life. As often as he would try, he could never seem to complete the task. He was terrified of forfeiting his memories and a small part of him hoped that maybe there was someone out there that would be affected by his passing. He couldn’t bear to bring grief to anyone else so he kept that hopeful person in his mind as often as possible, battling his own repentant thoughts.
     Nearly a year had passed since he had lost his son and everything else went as well. There was no hot water in the house. He rarely ate. He was stealing cable television. He had given up almost entirely. He was waiting for something to happen as much he knew it would never work that way.
     Some days when he would wake, he would feel some potency of optimism but it would be short-lived as his mind would wander down negative paths.

December 1991
     A few weeks had passed since he had sold what belongings he had left. His extensive tool collection and 1969 Chevrolet Camaro project car had lead to a helpful sum of cash which he used to pay for all his necessary hunting and survival gear. He had come to a decision in those weeks and for the first time in years he had a goal. Although indistinct, it was a step in a new direction.

February 1993
     He trekked like he always trekked and he rarely got sufficient sleep due to the ghosts in his dreams. He had been in the woods off and on for over a year, hunting and searching. Searching and hunting. He would sit and watch the trees shiver in the icy breeze with branches moving like the fingers of a puppeteer. Once in a blue moon would he make a kill worthy enough to eat. There was never enough beyond his own needs that would be sufficient enough to make money.
     A year of searching. A year with hopes of finding something in himself to make a difference. He had come to a decision, and as it was a step in a new direction, it was many inadvertent steps toward the only thing he had ever loved.
     His body was found by two passing hikers some days later; a sky-like shade of blue, speckled with white in the freezing snow. The police found an opened, blank envelope in the inside pocket of his coat. It contained a simple note. He had no identification, money, or any other possessions on his person. He had grown progressively weary from the hunt and his seasoned skin absorbed the chill to the bone.