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Old boots hesitantly kick the snow, causing it to slip off the narrow cliff. A small chuckle leaves the boy’s raw lips, ruined and cracked from bad habits. It's been 3 years since his parent’s demise, 3 years he’s been living without reason. There’s nothing left of his life. He tries to pass the time with working girls, or gambling away what little money he has, letting stolen whiskey burn his throat, but it’s all pointless. He can barely feed himself, his coat clinging to nothing but skin and bones.
The ranch is past saving; the old house deteriorating with water damage and various other issues Jack can’t find the time or energy to fix. He can’t bring himself to go back there with his Ma’s cooking pot glued to the stove, his Pa’s guns hidden under their bed, the constant barking of Rufus in his ears, though he knows it’s just his imagination. There’s a reason he stands at this cliff every day. Pa told him this is where Dutch was killed. It takes him a moment, but then he remembers the conversation.
"He killed himself, up at Cochinay. You remember him, boy?" John had asked, rubbing the barrel of his gun with a rag. "Bits ‘nd pieces, sir," Jack answered, intently watching his father's calloused hands work their way up the shotgun.
The little memories Jack has of the man aren’t good, and they ain’t the kindest either. He was always harsh with words, biting at anyone who questioned his motives like a rabid dog. Dutch was cordial at one point, Jack knows that. He felt nauseous thinking about it. He reaches up, slowly pulling his father’s hat off his head, running an index against the jagged material, feeling the rough texture. Looking at his Pa's hat brings a mix of emotions―a sense of connection tinged with discomfort. His lips part in an exasperated sigh as he adjusts the hat back onto his head, brows furrowing as he peeks over the edge, more snow falling off the side.
With a heavy heart, Jack takes a small step forward, his foot poised on the edge of oblivion. The snow crunches beneath his boots, each sound amplifying the stillness of the evening. In that fragile moment between breaths, he hesitated.
Was it fear that held him back, or something else entirely? Perhaps it was the glimmer of a distant memory, a whisper of a promise yet unfulfilled. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the faint echo of a voice calling out to him from the depths below.
His silhouette etched against the fiery canvas of the setting sun over the horizon. He felt the biting chill of the winter breeze, but it was a sensation he welcomed.