A New Beginning

Catharsis

You retreat to the armchair. By the steady rhythm of Arthur's breathing, free of murmurs and grunts of pain you deduce he must be sound asleep in quiet, dreamless slumber. His right arm is resting on his chest and his head is tilted towards the northeastern wall, at his left. The bed, although a tolerable size, is barely large enough for him to fit. Your notice – and gaze sweeps left, landing once again on that temptuous, illicit thingumajig lying on the nearby table.

In Saint Denis there was always a distraction at hand when you needed one. Whenever the wistful melancholy of homesickness evoked by remembrance of your father's smile or uncle Bry's roaring, hearty laugh left you in despondence and gloom you would head out to explore by tram or by foot the 200-year-strong melting pot of magnates and drifters, merchants and fences, polite society, thieves, and beggars, at leisure to join a game of dominoes, watch street performers entertain passersby, visit Vaudeville for the latest cabaret at Théâtre Râleur or Fontana to marvel at the remarkable cinematography shows, enjoy the tranquility of a solitary stroll in the city park as the pulse of the city buzzed by, or visit to the public library where you have, over the course of eight months, devoured more books than the last five years combined, fiction and non-fiction alike.

With no variation of chores or activities, no errands to run or places to visit, no diversion of heart or mind from Arthur's hapless, ill-fated condition and its likely somber conclusion you are full on at leisure for every contemplation apropos the abovementioned manuscript and the contents therein, so entirely and utterly conscious of every burning question, which answers are within arm's reach – literally. Introverted and reclusive by nature, there is so much he won't share with anyone – aside from that leathery binder that is, as is his right yet, all things considered, isn't it likewise your right to see for yourself, through his eyes, the unmediated, unvarnished, veracious account of that event, recited by the instigator himself mere moments after its occurrence? Is that not the better option after all, against your fancy, for want of knowledge and understanding, running wild imagining all sorts of horrors? How can you forgo such a unique insight into his character?

These are the ruminations reigning your mood, stealing your notice and averting your eye. One moment the book is in your hand, the next it's at the table, then back into your nimble hands again.

It's no longer a measly want or even a crave but a full-on need – a burning, besetting, all-consuming need. Your fingers are itching to turn, your eyes agog to read those words not meant for your eye, or anyone's eye but the narrator himself, to see what he might have written, if anything at all, about you, your father, and those punches, which had felt like a punch of hurt and betrayal, even though you know he was unaware of your relation.

You must know. You need to know, before – while he is still alive.

You open the well-used logbook to a flare of guilt, imputed to the impropriety of meddling in someone's private space, at which you have not been invited but this need to know, that you've lulled into a rationale of righteousness, wins. Just this time and never again, you solemnly vow.

The first entry describes how the journal came to his possession and how he had been longing to write and draw, or –missing it more than I thought I would and finally near a store, so here I am I guess. Then follows an account of what the papers had referred to as "The Blackwater Heist".

You sink back into the armchair, deflated. That was them!

Arthur had talked about a ferry job, after which things had really started to go sour for the gang but you hadn't coupled it with the infamous Blackwater heist. You remember the headline in the local newspaper but hadn't read article, at your father's request foregoing a vehement caveat of engaging strangers in conversation, especially those coming in from Blackwater. Therefore, you had not been familiar with the specifics, the particular of it being the handiwork of his old gang included. A few entries after the Blackwater heist there's one of a shootout in Strawberry after bailing out a comrade he'd rather see swinging instead and your heart sinks as you come to realize, it must have been the same that nearly cost uncle Bry his life.