Waves crash against the rocks, sending splatters of water against my hands and face. The sun’s warmth rests on my back, slowly draining with each minute. My hands rest on the scratchy wood of the fishing pole, quietly waiting to feel the tug of a fish. I’m sitting here on the pier, toes dipped into cold water, alone with my thoughts and the waves. Just like always.

Every day I stumble out of my hut, fumble with the strings, and cast my rod into the depths of the sea. Every day I come home, cook what I caught, and lay alone with my thoughts. I never really know how much time has passed. Days come in and go out, and all I hear are the waves and seagulls, their calls ringing through the air. Never anything new; never good or bad news from someplace, never a new story from some passerby, never a whisper from some lover. It’s never enough to keep my mind on something else. No matter how hard I try to forget, it just keeps coming back to me. I thought I’d be able to heal, to finally forget the past, and just keep fishing. This is the life I chose. So why does it hurt so damn much? At night, I hear their screams, begging me to help, begging me to stop, but I just keep on going. Why does it hurt when I dream, and keep hurting when I wake up?

I lose the train of thought with the yank of my pole. Something’s biting, something good, I can feel it. I pull back, and after a quick fight, I’ve got it. It’s still squirming, so I beat it a couple times, before stuffing it into a bag. Not long now, before the stove is lit up again. Cooking is always a hassle. She used to be good at it; I never was myself. No matter how much oil and salt and pepper I put in, it always tastes terrible. Just like today. It’s rather unsavory; the salt and oil clash harshly against the fish taste. Her fish always came out incredible; crispy and delicate, like herself. Anytime she got in the kitchen, the whole house would fill with the aromatics of her cooking. I missed those days. Here, the kitchen smells of grease and garbage, the only thing good in here being the window, letting in the stiff ocean breeze. I can’t complain. I don’t have a right to. This is what I chose, and this is what I get. When the food is done, digesting in my stomach, I stumble over to the bed, and lay down on the soft hard sheets. This is all I am now. I whittle the days away, alone on the pier, alone in my bed, alone in my thoughts. Mumbling to myself on occasion. I am a fisherman, and I catch fish. It’s my life, and I chose this lie. So why does it hurt so much?