Almond shaped eyes - a dark brown that turns honey in the sun - continues to haunt my dreams, and even awake, all I see is still just him. 

He is on my mind incessantly, a constant loop, like a broken record. It hisses. It scratches and hurts, and I can't seem to stop it. 

It has been days since he passed, or was declared dead. Everyone seemed to agree that a current had swept him away. No one bothered to go looking for his body. Said it was a lost cause. All the fish, deep down, had already nippled on his dead flesh until nothing was left but clean bone. 

That was why the town ended up burying a casket without a body.

The funeral was yesterday. 

Not many showed up, and the ones who did, did not seem to care much. 

That was what stuck with me the most, under the ceremony and when we eventually headed home. It left such a bitter taste on my tongue. No one really seemed to care.

Does anyone really mourn the dead? Or is it just for show? Or was he really just that unimportant, ignored and hated by every part of town? 

The picture they used for the burial ceremony was an old one. In that picture, the boy had dark brown, almost black hair, cropped short - buzzcut like. Yet, the curls were still visible, tight and whirly. Anne, the foster mother, probably did not know how to take care of it, why she kept it short. 

His smile in the picture was bright, teeth a bit crooked, but it gave him character. In the picture the baby-fat was still clinging to his face, making him look full, healthier and not as starved. 

It was also at the funeral that I finally learned his name. Jude. He died at 15, twelve days away from his 16th birthday. He was older than me.   

Even though the two pictures, the one in my mind of him by the pier and the one at the funeral, were complete opposites. It was still the same boy. Same eyes, same brown skin, same boy who foolishly jumped into the water claiming the sea spoke to him.  

Shame crumbles over me at the thought of my reaction back then, of how I lashed out. If I had done things differently, maybe Jude would still be alive. 

The plate in front of me turns less appetizing with each thought of what if that plays in my head. My stomach rumbles in denial. Even if I tried, I doubt more food could go down. 

I let go of the fork. It clangs against the ceramic louder than I would have liked, alerting my father. 

He puts down his coffee - the one he had been sipping on for the last 30 minutes - newspaper long forgotten. "Are you disrespecting your mother, boy?" My father asks, voice already tense with unused anger this very morning. 

"No," I say, holding back any sass that could be understood differently. That could give my father an easy opening into turning a slow, silent morning into a shitstorm. “I’m just not hungry, I can’t eat anymore.” 

My father scoffs and points at me with an ordering finger. “You finish what your mother made you.”  

“But I can’t eat any more,” I reply, tone calm and collected. 

I can see my father’s hand clench into a fist, knuckles turning white with strain. He smacks his fist down onto the table, shaking the entire thing. It almost feels like even the windows rattle with the blow.  

I hear something drop in the kitchen as my mother hurries out into the dining room. Alerted by the sound. 

My mother never really liked to eat with us. She would rather wash the dishes until my father was done with his food, then she would eat something as well. Maybe it was just her smart way of spending less time with my father. 

“If Mark’s not hungry, that is on him. He won’t get to eat until dinner then.” My mother pipes in, a washcloth thrown over her shoulder and her apron wet from water.

“And waste the food that I pay for?” He raises his voice. “He’s an ungrateful little brat, don’t you see!” Before my mother can get a word in, I jump from my seat, smacking my hands down on the table. 

“I’m just not hungry!” I yell out. 

The loud squeak of my father’s chair dragging across the floorboards echoes throughout the house. Followed by my father putting all his weight into pushing the dinner-table to the side, plates falling to the floor, breaking. 

My mother jumps into action, trying to hold my father back as he charges for me. Her hold does nothing as he simply shrugs her away and she folds.

I stand my ground, awaiting the inevitable. 

The slap is like thunder, a loud crack as his palm meets my cheek. It stings and I can already feel the red mark forming there. It also sets me into action, pushing myself away from him. I rush towards the front door.

“Get back here!” I can hear him yell after me, but all I do is let my legs carry me away. 

My lungs are burning by the time I make it down to the dock. I decide to push further, until I'm far enough away from all the houses and roads. I find myself in a quiet area, there are a couple of rocks a bit further into the water. I walk over to them, leaving imprints in the wet sand as I go. 

My pant legs quickly soak up water as I sit down on the biggest rock. I sit there for what feels like hours, the wind slowly picking up. I cradle my legs up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them for warmth. The tenseness in my shoulders eases up ever so slightly. 

The harmonic rocking of the waves leaves me in a soft trance. My chin rests on my knees as I look out at where the sun meets the waterline. It casts orange hues across the water, making it look like it’s on fire. 

By the time the sun has gone down my shoes are completely wet, socks soaked as well. The cold is getting unbearable, which is what inevitably forces me to begin to return home. 

I stand up from the rock, careful not to slip as I make my way back on land. Although a small whisper of my name has me stopping abruptly and turning back around. But all there is to see is now nothing but dark water and the sound of the waves crashing against each other. 

I hurry just a little bit faster home because of that, although that's something I hardly would ever admit. 

When I get back home the house is silent. The floor is swept clean of broken plates and the table is back in its usual spot. The curtains are drawn shut and only the light is from the living room. 

My father is sitting in his armchair, a cigar in his hand. My mother is by his side, hand grazing his shoulder, a frown on her face. Their heads turn as they hear the front door close. My mothers eyes are wide, I can spot the worry even from over here. 

“Sit, please.” My mother says, gesturing toward the couch. I do as she says, slowly sinking into the old green couch. My clothes are still wet, now also cold and clinging to my skin, but I can ignore it for now.  

I look over at my father, who glares at me disappointedly. At this point it feels like no matter how much space there is between us, it's not enough. 

“Took you long enough to get back home,” My father starts, taking a puff from his lit cigar. The smoke stinks up the room, leaving a sour taste behind. 

My mother grimaces next to him. “Arthur please don-” She starts but my father shushes her. A threat written clear underneath the lines. 

“You’ve been acting disrespectful towards me and your mother for far too long. It’s time I teach you some real discipline.” He looks sure of himself as he keeps going. “But this time, we will do it differently. It’s obvious that the old ways of keeping you in line are not working. So to fix that, I’m taking you with me on my next hunting trip with the boys. There you can truly learn what it's like to be a man and follow orders.” 

“What?” I yell out before I can stop myself. I never had the desire to go out to sea. Well, I have, but not because I have the urge to hunt. I find the ocean to be a pretty sight, not a place to draw blood. Even with the wicked creatures in the water, they still should have a place to stay.  

“It’s too dangerous Arthur, I don’t think it’s a good idea,” My mother says. “He could get hurt.” 

My fists tighten in the fabric of my pants. A sense of doom falling over me. 

“I stand my ground,” My father replies. “That boy is going out with me, and when we get back he will be closer to a man than before, that's for sure.”