Old Dogs Lie [Ian]

George gave a bitter sort of chuckle. "My Brother is a junkie, out on some corner I'm sure;" he said with a shake of his head. "But he got to have visitation rights, apparently a junkie is more stable than a Vet. Some how everyone feels sorry for him, they don't give me that benefit, not that I'd want pity." He took a drag off his cigarette, offering the lighter to the doctor again.

"What's wrong with you? Voices in your head? Dangerous...must be dangerous, put him in an institution get him away from me," he repeated a few things that'd been said to him in those few months after he'd gotten back. "Why can't you just be happy. How many times do they say that, eh? Like being happy is some switch you can just flick. Like you just wake up one day smiling and ready to face tomorrow." He took a drag and sniffed. "Doesn't work that way, never works that way. You try, damned if you don't try, picking up your little girl, dancing around the living room. You feel her nasty little beady eyes digging into you, like you're some horrible stranger." He ground out the cigarette and cleared his throat. "Then they just drop you. If you can't be happy...then we're not going to help. They take all the joy away."

He raised a brow and snorted. "Not like I've listened to a doctor in a few years. No offense of course," he mused as he took a swig.

He took the lighter and lit the cigarette. "And after a while...you start thinking...they'd be happier without you around all the time bringing them down. And it's better to just let her go and actually find someone who *can* make her happy, cause God knows you can't seem to. And...you've been friends with her since you were kids, you love her, you do...and you don't want to be the reason she's miserable and wastes her life. But you bring up divorce and it's like you said you wanted to just burn your house down with your family still inside...figure your shit out, Ian. Nice Catholic boys don't get divorces and Real Men don't leave."

He sighed, sounding exhausted. "No one cares that inside you're dying...you're not living up to what they want, and what'll the gossips say about that?" He flicked more ash off the cigarette. "It's been eleven years and my father still hasn't spoken to me since. He sure as hell talks *about* me...just not *to* me."

He shrugged and gave a bit of a smirk. "I don't care if you listen to me or not. I did my due diligence and said it...what you do with that is up to you."

"They say you're not fit to be a father, that fathers don't wake their kids up in the middle of the night to see if they're okay...just cause of some stupid dream. Men are supposed to satisfy their women," he grumbled as he finally decided maybe he'd had enough to drink. "Kinda man can't even manage that? Isn't that easy?" George huffed. "You can't say divorce, she sure can, and she gets one of those lawyers who gets a CPS agent, and they tell her exactly what to say. He's dangerous, he keeps too many guns in the house, he's got problems...I'm scared of him. Then it's through the courts so quick, and your lawyer just shrugs, like you're guilty." He practically spat that last bit. "Nobody cares you need help."

George furrowed his brows. "No one cares that you're dying inside...aint that the truth. I got 4 years...to see her, what a bright thing she was. Hair in pigtails, a funny crooked tooth..." He said and sniffed rubbing his face. "They were both...both mine...just as much as hers...but she was allowed to take them across the country...and none of my family ever said a word about it. Only one who gave a damn was my mother...and she had to go and pass away not three years later. You start to think maybe fates just fucking with you."

"I appreciate it anyway..." he said with a sigh. "Guess in the end we're all brothers..."

He started to say something, then paused. He knew just how lucky he was that he'd still gotten to be in his son's life, he could have just as easily been in the same place George had been. Could have been...because if that's what had happened he knew for a fact he wouldn't still be here today to talk about it.

"It's not right." He finally said, shaking his head. "These people, who've never been there...and who pull things like that." He wondered if they knew, really knew what they were doing when they did things like that. If they really understood. And if they even cared. It often felt like they didn't.

"That was a long time ago though...you ever...try and talk to them as adults?" He asked after a thoughtful moment.

"She knew what she was doing," he muttered as he shook his head. "They just...do what they're supposed to, believe her." He ran a hand through his hair. "That's what they do." He supposed he kept living because he was sure she'd told the kids he'd died. Wasn't it easy? He was a soldier, he died. George shook his head.

"Would if I could, don't know where they are, not allowed to know; and I'm not even sure they know I'm alive either..." he said softly. "What would they think of me anyway? What did she tell them?" George crossed his arms over his chest. "It's been so long, I'm sure they've already forgotten. They probably don't even have my last name, or if they do, that's all they'll remember of me." He seemed pretty sure of that.

"I wonder a lot though, if they have families; if my boy ended up anything like me...probably not. Just vanity makes me think he might," he said softly. "My little girl though, she liked to play all kinds of games, she'd put on my field shirt...so big might as well have been a sheet." He laughed sadly. "Maybe in the end she grew up to be a soldier...or all the other things she pretended to be." George sighed. "I just hope she's happy, they're both happy."