My Redemption

CHAPTER 1 - RUNNING AWAY

Standing resolutely on the bow of the boat, I confronted an irrevocable truth, returning to the life I once cherished was no longer an option. It wasn't that I didn't want to go back; it was that the choices I had made rendered the thought of it almost impossible. In the depths of my heart, I understood the magnitude of what I was leaving behind, and I knew I would yearn for it relentlessly, but I couldn't stay. Not anymore.

Before me, the tranquil sea stretched out like an endless canvas, the horizon dotted with soft clouds. The nascent rays of the sun warmed the back of my neck, slowly banishing the last remnants of the night's chill. Behind me, the dock and the familiar land were fading gently from view, dissolving into the distance like a fugitive fleeing the relentless pursuit of the law. But in my case, I wasn't running from the law, I was running from the pain, the guilt, and the memories I couldn't face. Even though I knew deep down they would catch up to me, I was determined to outrun them, if only for a while.

As I stood there, lost in my thoughts, Johnny appeared silently beside me. His hand rested on my shoulder, and in the calmest voice, he said, "I'll help you through this, no matter what it takes." There was no judgment in his words, only a quiet understanding, and for a moment, I almost believed him. With a warm smile, he gave my shoulder a squeeze and left me to my thoughts, returning to the tasks he needed to complete.

The boat sliced through the gentle waves, and I found solace in the rhythmic dance of the water beneath me. The vastness of the ocean mirrored the uncertainty within me, offering both refuge and isolation. Each passing moment carried me further from the life I once knew, and as the shoreline dissolved into nothing more than a distant memory, a heavy sense of liberation mingled with my lingering remorse. I clung to the hope that, with time, the horizon would reveal answers to questions I hadn't dared to ask.

"Micheal," I heard from behind me. Johnny's voice had changed—there was a stiffness to it. My brother, Johnny, who had always supported me, who had always been there protecting me from the courtyard bullies to giving me the last slice of cake on his own birthday, he had always put me first. But lately, something had shifted between us. Maybe he wasn't pulling away in the literal sense, but his tone, his actions, they felt different. It was as though he wanted me to stand on my own, to stop leaning on him for support.

He still helped when I needed him, but there was a new edge to it, like a man doing his duty, not out of the same selfless love I had known growing up. It was a subtle shift, but I could feel it. And yet, no matter how much distance I felt growing between us, I knew that if I reached out, Johnny would still be there, just like he had always been.

When I finally found my brother, he was in the midst of securing the last of the ropes and giving the boat a meticulous cleaning, as though he were preparing it for inspection by some impossibly high standards he always upheld. It was almost amusing how he approached the task—like a proud parent making sure their child was spotless before heading out into the world.

It always frustrated me when I casually used words like "back" or "side" whether referring to the left or right of the boat. Without fail, Johnny would correct me gently but firmly, reminding me that it was "stern" for the back, "starboard" for the right, and "port" for the left. It was as if he believed I should've been born a sailor, expected to follow the same unwritten protocols he and our father, Edward, adhered to so rigorously.

Edward, now retired but still a man of great pride, had been cut from a similar cloth. I remembered him, always dressed sharply, in smart trousers and a shirt that looked like something one might wear to a wedding. He was obsessed with projecting the image of utmost respectability, a lesson he never tired of imparting. But I recalled a different man from my childhood, a fisherman who wore worn-out dungarees, wellies, and a traditional woolly hat he refused to take off, even at the dinner table. This had driven our mother mad, though she eventually gave up trying to change him. I remember her resigned grin whenever she'd ask him to remove it, knowing it was a battle not worth fighting.