Status: updates are kind of slow. sorry.
Hard Water
ix
Maxwell Garrison - robust and about fifty - had lived on the hilltop, isolated from the rest of the town for most of his life. Every early morning at the break of pale yellow sun, he'd make his way down to the docks to begin the day's fish. He would marvel at the awakening of the birds and how the sunrise flooded the island with an array of colours until it finally settled on gold or grey, depending on the season. Most of the time, it rained, but Maxwell didn't mind rain that much. The fresh air was enough. Peace, solitude and a job worth working was what kept him happy.
Of course - there was his daughter, the angelic Elena. She still lived with him, but they hardly spoke. Still, he kept fond memories of her from when she was a child locked away in a safe place in his brain, memories from when her mother was alive and well. Ten years ago summers had lasted longer and winters had been less cold when Sara was around. On particularly bad days, when he missed Sara a lot, he couldn't even bear to look at Elly. They had shared the same flaming hair and milky white skin, the same quiet demeanor and caring but slightly aloof nature. She was a replica of Sara, a reminder, a gift from her to him.
When she was with the Johansson boy, she smiled more. She would come home smiling - usually later than Maxwell had advised - and she would still smile as she made him a cup of tea and some soup. He would begin to say something along the lines of, "It's a long, dark walk up that hill..." but the sentence would drift away as he realised that, maybe, this was it. She'd met someone who made her happy, and for as long as this Adam boy made his daughter happy he had no qualms to speak of or worry about.
So instead, one night when she'd come home pink-cheeked and grinning ear-to-ear, and he had observed her fondly from his armchair in front of the fire with slight suspicion in his twinkling eyes, he'd asked her, "Why don't you bring the lad home with you? Give him a chance to meet the old man, eh?" Of course, he knew who Adam was already. On an island of only one hundred, it was impossible not to. He worked down at the dock on one of the boats much like himself, with a ghostlike boy the same age, but they had never spoken.
"No, Pa. You'll embarrass me."
-
Elly would constantly vehemently refuse to introduce them, and Maxwell could not contain his curiousity. Maybe it was fate that Adam was in the pub, alone at the bar, when Max hobbled in. He stopped at the door and observed him uncertainly for a moment, feeling almost like a foolish teenager. There was something striking and magnetic about him, drawing Max closer to the young man, his shoes sounding excessively loud as the heels rapped against the smooth hardwood floor. He cleared his throat self-consciously and said, "Good evenin'."
Adam glanced up at him with faint interest in his gleaming green eyes. Even through the shadows of the room, the piercing shade still made itself evident. He offered Max a friendly smile, one which was polite but not warm. "Alright?" the younger man acknowledged him casually.
Max had decided to cut to the chase. "I'm Maxwell Garrison. Elly's old man. You're Adam, right? Her boyfriend?" Maybe a little too confrontational, he thought: he took a seat next to him, and relaxed a little when Adam nodded. "I've seen you down at the docks. I work there too, but only part-time now-" his sentence was cut off by a hacking cough that seemed to explode in his lungs like a bullet from a gun, rattling around his ribcage until it came to rest under his heart. It threw off his balance completely.
"Shit, that sounded bad," Adam said matter-of-factly, "you should get that checked out."
"Yeah, thank you-"
"Oh, sorry. It's none of my business." Max smiled at him weakly.
"So. Have you come to interrogate me? Make sure I'm not stark raving mad?" Adam asked bluntly with that peculiar accent of his, then took a swig of his beer, but Max could see his grin from the way his eyes crinkled over the rim of the glass.
Max chuckled, his voice still hoarse. "I just wanna know what kind of man is romancing my daughter, that's all." Even as he spoke those words, he knew that he had already been won over. Adam, although maybe a little cold in his manner, radiated warmth in his aura. He was mysterious, but in a good way, in the way that keeps people wrapped up in their own thoughts and safe within themselves, instead of relying on others for support. He liked that in a person. He knew first-hand what it felt like to be alone.
"So," he said, "tell me about yerself."
-
It had been five years since Maxwell met Adam, and now the fifth winter since his life had changed had come around, and he was not prepared. He was weak now. He missed the young man who he hoped would one day become his son-in-law, and he missed his daughter.
Three years since he made a full recovery, he was now in the terminal stage of his second bout of lung cancer.
Elly had given up on him, on his heaving, wretched body. The slow and painful compression of his lungs had rendered him bed-ridden most of the time, and he was barely able to breathe. She had to do everything for him, and she was young - too young - and tired. Most of the time, she would sip coffee and stare vacantly out the window, as if she was waiting for the eventual demise of both her parents, slowly but surely, one after the other. There was nothing he could do about her emotions. It was often hard to tell what she was thinking at all.
This evening was another evening spent sat alone, in the cold, listening to the wind. The TV wa broken and there was not even any firewood left. Elly was God-knows-where. Tears stung his grey-blue eyes, the whites faintly pinkened and watery from too much whiskey. His shaking hands, craggy with age, gripped his blanket and pulled it tighter around him, as close as possible to his body. He would wait, here, until his daughter came home. For hours, if it took that. He would talk to her, thank her, tell her how special she was to him, how much he truly loved her.
There was a knock on the door.
Of course - there was his daughter, the angelic Elena. She still lived with him, but they hardly spoke. Still, he kept fond memories of her from when she was a child locked away in a safe place in his brain, memories from when her mother was alive and well. Ten years ago summers had lasted longer and winters had been less cold when Sara was around. On particularly bad days, when he missed Sara a lot, he couldn't even bear to look at Elly. They had shared the same flaming hair and milky white skin, the same quiet demeanor and caring but slightly aloof nature. She was a replica of Sara, a reminder, a gift from her to him.
When she was with the Johansson boy, she smiled more. She would come home smiling - usually later than Maxwell had advised - and she would still smile as she made him a cup of tea and some soup. He would begin to say something along the lines of, "It's a long, dark walk up that hill..." but the sentence would drift away as he realised that, maybe, this was it. She'd met someone who made her happy, and for as long as this Adam boy made his daughter happy he had no qualms to speak of or worry about.
So instead, one night when she'd come home pink-cheeked and grinning ear-to-ear, and he had observed her fondly from his armchair in front of the fire with slight suspicion in his twinkling eyes, he'd asked her, "Why don't you bring the lad home with you? Give him a chance to meet the old man, eh?" Of course, he knew who Adam was already. On an island of only one hundred, it was impossible not to. He worked down at the dock on one of the boats much like himself, with a ghostlike boy the same age, but they had never spoken.
"No, Pa. You'll embarrass me."
-
Elly would constantly vehemently refuse to introduce them, and Maxwell could not contain his curiousity. Maybe it was fate that Adam was in the pub, alone at the bar, when Max hobbled in. He stopped at the door and observed him uncertainly for a moment, feeling almost like a foolish teenager. There was something striking and magnetic about him, drawing Max closer to the young man, his shoes sounding excessively loud as the heels rapped against the smooth hardwood floor. He cleared his throat self-consciously and said, "Good evenin'."
Adam glanced up at him with faint interest in his gleaming green eyes. Even through the shadows of the room, the piercing shade still made itself evident. He offered Max a friendly smile, one which was polite but not warm. "Alright?" the younger man acknowledged him casually.
Max had decided to cut to the chase. "I'm Maxwell Garrison. Elly's old man. You're Adam, right? Her boyfriend?" Maybe a little too confrontational, he thought: he took a seat next to him, and relaxed a little when Adam nodded. "I've seen you down at the docks. I work there too, but only part-time now-" his sentence was cut off by a hacking cough that seemed to explode in his lungs like a bullet from a gun, rattling around his ribcage until it came to rest under his heart. It threw off his balance completely.
"Shit, that sounded bad," Adam said matter-of-factly, "you should get that checked out."
"Yeah, thank you-"
"Oh, sorry. It's none of my business." Max smiled at him weakly.
"So. Have you come to interrogate me? Make sure I'm not stark raving mad?" Adam asked bluntly with that peculiar accent of his, then took a swig of his beer, but Max could see his grin from the way his eyes crinkled over the rim of the glass.
Max chuckled, his voice still hoarse. "I just wanna know what kind of man is romancing my daughter, that's all." Even as he spoke those words, he knew that he had already been won over. Adam, although maybe a little cold in his manner, radiated warmth in his aura. He was mysterious, but in a good way, in the way that keeps people wrapped up in their own thoughts and safe within themselves, instead of relying on others for support. He liked that in a person. He knew first-hand what it felt like to be alone.
"So," he said, "tell me about yerself."
-
It had been five years since Maxwell met Adam, and now the fifth winter since his life had changed had come around, and he was not prepared. He was weak now. He missed the young man who he hoped would one day become his son-in-law, and he missed his daughter.
Three years since he made a full recovery, he was now in the terminal stage of his second bout of lung cancer.
Elly had given up on him, on his heaving, wretched body. The slow and painful compression of his lungs had rendered him bed-ridden most of the time, and he was barely able to breathe. She had to do everything for him, and she was young - too young - and tired. Most of the time, she would sip coffee and stare vacantly out the window, as if she was waiting for the eventual demise of both her parents, slowly but surely, one after the other. There was nothing he could do about her emotions. It was often hard to tell what she was thinking at all.
This evening was another evening spent sat alone, in the cold, listening to the wind. The TV wa broken and there was not even any firewood left. Elly was God-knows-where. Tears stung his grey-blue eyes, the whites faintly pinkened and watery from too much whiskey. His shaking hands, craggy with age, gripped his blanket and pulled it tighter around him, as close as possible to his body. He would wait, here, until his daughter came home. For hours, if it took that. He would talk to her, thank her, tell her how special she was to him, how much he truly loved her.
There was a knock on the door.