text: Chris strode down the street, market stalls from the festival closing. It was just after dawn, and in a small village like this, hardly anyone was still awake - annual festival or not. Chris didn’t live here, didn’t live anywhere near here, really. He was just passing through, hopping onto traveling carriages when he could, walking when he couldn’t. He had a set destination in mind, and it was across the country. Over there, with clear skies, sandy beaches, and open waters, Chris would finally find peace. He’d lived a worthwhile life, racking up as many enemies as he did lovers, but it was time he laid down and enjoyed the serenity being someplace new offered. The village he was at right now was on his way to that far-away beach. He’d only arrived a few hours ago, taking his time to sightsee and shop. The festival seemed to be, from the few people he spoke to, a once-a-year celebration of life. No one was to go hunting or fighting for the week-long festival. It was a week of good-natured fun, dancing, and talking to those who stayed alive. Chris was grateful for the festivities, for it meant no one would cause him trouble, being a newcomer and passerby and all that. However, it also meant he had to watch his manners, because Chris loved to argue, and he loved even more to fight. He’d dueled quite a few men in his prime, but his life was quickly setting, and he didn’t want to spend whatever time he had left worried he’d be shot. Chris continued walking down the main street, nodding his head to those packing up their stalls, making his way back to where he was lodging. Finding a place to sleep was always his top priority in a new place. It was a lot easier cleaning up blood with a tub. A lot safer passing out on a bed. The establishment he’d chosen this time was a newer looking tavern. The bar was on the bottom, rooming on the floor above. It seemed to be the only place to grab a drink, and it wouldn’t open until sunrise tomorrow to give a day of rest after the festival. Chris remembered overhearing something similar being done for all the other shops on the street. Which was just fine for him, as the more he drank the angrier he got, and it wouldn’t be good to start his easy-going lifestyle with even more blood on his hands. Chris kicked a rock out of his way, ambling toward the bar’s doors. It was a wooden building painted bright red, blending in with the other colorful buildings littering the street. For one night’s sleep it wasn’t a bad price, and it came with as much food from the bar as Chris could shove in his mouth. Being on the larger side, that meant a whole lot. Chris shouldered open the half-cut doors, raised his hat to the owner cleaning tables, and walked to the side door, up the stairs, down the hallway to his room. He didn’t bother locking it with the key the owner gave him - he didn’t bring any valuables. Chris was planning on buying materials to set up a home once he was closer to the coast, so for now all he had were the clothes he wore, two guns, a handful of bullets, and his life’s money. Not much he’d ever owned beyond that in his life anyway. Chris let the door swing itself shut and ventured into his room for the night. He planned on sleeping till noon, then hitching a ride to the next town. Chris shucked off his jacket and holster belt, kicked off his boots, and slid beneath the threadbare blanket onto the rickety bed. He was quite used to sleeping on the ground, especially if he couldn’t hitch a ride between towns, so this was a nice respite. As Chris laid down, he crossed his legs and rested his head on his arms, reminiscing over his life. He’d spent close to every second of his 48 years causing some kind of trouble. From stealing when he was a young man to picking fights everywhere he went as he got older. He’d killed a few people and ruined a few more lives, but he didn’t regret any of what he’d done. For him, it was in the past, and he wasn’t concerned with his past, only worried about his future. He remembered a time, when he couldn’t have been more than 20, when traveling still felt exciting and he was learning just how good a shot he was, when he first killed a man. It was in a tavern just like this, a village just like this. He couldn’t say it was an accident, couldn’t say he hadn’t meant it. Couldn’t even say he wouldn’t have done it again if given the chance. Because he did. In almost every town he visited thereafter. Chris couldn’t remember the fine details of that experience, but he could still picture the man he killed. Stomping up to Chris sitting at a cards table, Chris’ arm wrapped around his girl, ripping that arm away. Chris remembered his eyes, boiling with rage and one too many drinks. The man was unsteady standing, but he had a hundred pounds and a few inches on Chris. Chris new instantly he was in for it, hands reaching for his guns before he’d even thought to ask questions. He didn’t care if he’d stolen the other man’s girl, didn’t care that he could’ve taken a few punches and both would’ve lived. The village was small enough for no one to want to fight anybody, and this man was large enough to not need a gun to intimidate, so Chris unloading a bullet into the man was unexpected. Sudden. He was a real good shot. Especially with that short distance. The man towering over him, ferociousness etched into his scowl and narrowed eyes, toppled like water breaking through a dam. No one knew how to react, no one except Chris, who knew it was time to leave and find a new town. And so, he did. He left without a word of remorse to the man’s woman weeping over his body, to the little boy crouched beside her, to the people clamoring for his life. Chris didn’t think much of that man. The next few times he killed, he would remember those eyes, burning with hostility, impatience, pride. Chris figured his eyes looked much the same. With that memory passing through, Chris relaxed in his bed, and fell asleep. When he next woke, he felt refreshed. It was nice going to sleep on a bed under a roof. He opened his eyes and sought out the sun peaking through the wooden slabs. It was probably nearing, if not passed, noon. Chris stretched his arms above him - well, tried to. He couldn’t move them all that much. Making a confused sound, Chris turned his head to see what was going on, and saw, then felt, rope pulling each wrist to a bedpost. He yanked on the rope, trying to crack the bed frame, but even though it was rickety, it held. Chris wasn’t so worried. He’d been tied up before. He rolled his eyes at himself for not locking the room door before he went to sleep, but he was certain he’d live through this. He’d lived through worse. Chris tested his legs, and sure enough there was rope tying them to a bed post, as well. He couldn’t move much on his back as he was, but Chris looked around the room, searching for who tied him up. It was probably someone looking for money, or trouble, or both. Instead, Chris found himself looking at a ghost. The ghost of the first man he’d killed, the man he’d thought of last night. Chris shook his bindings and snarled at the ghost, “What the fuck d’ya want?” The ghost just stared. Chris laughed and stared back, trying to remember more of whom he killed and why he was standing before him. Those eyes. They were still filled with hostility, but now it veered toward vengeance. The man still had a deep-set scowl, but his face was more angular. When Chris shot him, the man had gray streaked in his hair and a pot belly showing years of heavy drinking. The man standing before him seemed younger than Chris, barely any wrinkle lines and none of the belly. Chris thought back to that night and remembered the grieving woman. And the little boy crouched next to her. Chris’ eyes widened and his laugh became louder, “Out for revenge little man?” Chris flicked his eyes away and licked his lips, “A bit late wouldn’t you say? Couldn’t find me?” Now, the man moved. He stepped forward till he was leaning over Chris, and spoke, “I was ten. My father wasn’t a good man, but he cared for my mother and his house.” The words came out stiffly and unrehearsed. Chris, even though it was nearly three decades ago, tried to remember the village from that day. The color of the tavern and the layout of the street he stayed on. He realized it was the same one he was in right now, and not much had changed. Looking at the man in front of him, not much had changed at all. Chris’ laugh petered out, and he bared his teeth, “A mighty miracle is what this looks like. Probably didn’t even try to avenge your old man. Just pure luck I came back on by, huh?” Chris had tensed when he’d thought it was a ghost, hallucinations where never a good sign at his age, but for the son of a man he’d killed? One who’d seemingly didn’t try to find him, with a lukewarm grudge decades old? Chris had handled angrier men. Men with more spite. He shifted in the bed, getting comfortable, for he knew a long conversation of threats and maybe some punches and cuts were in order, a deeper wound if the man had it in him. From what Chris knew in these few moments, tying him with rope, waiting till he was awake, not bothering to search for him, Chris didn’t think of fearing even a punch. The man, still leaning over him, eyes blazing, said, “I ain’t upset you killed him. He would’a died soon anyways. Just the man he was. But my mother cared for him, and this village cared for him, and they were peaceful folk. Didn’t hurt nobody. And now my momma’s dead,” his eyes flickered before they narrowed again, “And I’m not gonna live here anymore, so I don’t gotta be like them.” The man continued, “I ain’t a good man. I ain’t a good son. But he was my father, and I want my momma to have peace for his death.” He lowered his hands to his belt, and Chris noticed the holster, Chris’ holster, wrapped around his waist. Chris’ eyes burned with rage at being shot with his own gun. He thrashed in the ropes and opened his mouth to yell, but before even a whisper could escape, the man had fired. Blood trickled down Chris’ forehead into his open eyes. He was a good shot. Especially with this short distance.