To fight till their last breath and go out honourably. That would probably be what most want the end of their legacy to look like, no? Sinking into the black depths of the eyelids as the credits of our well-lived lives rolled, the good moments flashing through the minds eye like a home movie, with the angelic sounds of one's kids at play as the life-giving smile of a significant other carried us off into the light, all the while knowing we died on our swords and hoping we'd be met with scrolls of eulogies that warm the soul's reincarnation.

What an ending. What a high note to go out on. Pull the cord as I bow before the audience, the curtain closing snug around my beaming pride. What bullshit. We live. We die. And sometimes, some of us, actually get to experience being alive. But it ain't always how we imagine it. And it ain't always without suffering.

Water splashed up and over the sides of the wine vat as his body struggled under the strain, his arms flapping about and his legs kicking with all the energy he had left. He coughed and gasped and choked as his head emerged from the ice cold depths. The gloves holding him under were as black as the man's soul wearing them. They grabbed him by the hair as a closed fist smashed hard against his nose, splattering blood into the water and down the back of his throat. Then darkness.

His wife looked as beautiful as the day they'd met. His suit was tight and the tie felt like a noose around his neck. His palms were sweaty and his heart pounded inside his chest as he repeated the words. He could feel his eyes misting over as she repeated hers. His son stood tall as he took hold of the trophy. He could feel his face plastered with a grin, stretching his cheeks wide as his hands thumped hard against each other. His daughter smiled back as the wheels on the bike squeaked. The metal under the seat was warm to touch. She looked so innocent and happy. His heart swelled like never before. Love.

He could feel his chest rising and falling. Then the tang of copper and nickel on his tastebuds. Then slowly, pain, and a sudden shock of fear flooded his awareness. His wrists and ankles felt tight as he began to struggle. Blinking hurt and did nothing to improve his vision. Still darkness, but he was awake. He could feel and hear the rolling of wheels through the floor and the rough bumps of the road underneath. They were moving.

It seemed like forever before the trunk was opened and he was dragged out and flung onto the ground. He then heard fading sounds of gravel crunching under boots. He could feel the slight warmth of the midday sun but mostly the damp grass against his neck, ears and hands. Crows cawed in the distance. Then darkness.

The hand was rough yet strong and he challenged the grip as they shook. The sense of fear of loss captured his mind. Maybe this deal was a mistake echoed. Life drained from him as he read the newspaper headline. A sense of emptyness loomed. Then hopelessness gripped him. 'The market surely can't get worse' repeated over and over again causing his reality to shatter into a thousand pieces. Fear.

The feint sound of something digging into dirt got louder and louder. He could feel his chest rising and falling again. Then that tang from before. And on cue, the realization he was awake again and the sudden feeling of pain as his head throbbed to his deafening heartbeat. There was a constant never-ending acute stabbing in his ribs and a shot of that same feeling lighting up his calf with every movement causing him to wince. Then the digging stopped. And the boots got nearer. 

The light was blinding. He could barely see but glimpsed a piece of material float onto the ground. His muffled groans filled his ears as he struggled against his bindings at the recognition of the man before him. He'd put two and two together. A shovel was standing upwards, dug into the ground. Next to it, Scarfo, lighting a smoke.

"I wish things were different." Scarfo said as he exhaled.

"I wish I didn't have to kill your wife... and your kids... but you know the rules."

What was left of the broken gambler came out in waves and waves of deep, soul-wrenching cries. The pain felt within his tortured body didn't matter now. It fuelled him. He'd now lost it all. And one last time, darkness.

As Scarfo walked away, the dirt road crunched underfoot. A lucky strike dangled between his lips, a shovel rested over his shoulder and a sense of accomplishment lined his back pocket. That's all some of us need. Some though, they need to feel what it's like to be alive to remember what it is they're truly living for. If not, dead works too.

At the break of day, Scarfo's eyes flowed over some written words.

Who knows what that degenerate prick's ending will actually be. I doubt it'll be an open casket if he keeps losing at the West Cat Tavern. But hopefully the scare will help him fly straight.

Satisfied with his latest entry, Scarfo closed and rolled up the journal then tucked it away into his jacket. He took a moment to enjoy the view of the morning sun greeting the river from the fishing boat then stood to join Aiden_Doherty. With a nod the two lifted and dumped a plastic wrapped body over the side, a metal anchor following quickly after.

'And if not, dead works too.' Scarfo thought to himself as he watched the bubbles begin to dissipate and the white of the plastic disappear underwater.