Frankie Gonzalez

Secrets of a Dead Man

It’s been four days since the old man died, and yet it seems everyone else has already figured it was time to divvy up his belongings. My family is like a pack of vultures, ready to pounce on the first opportunity to better themselves in a greedy pursuit of self-development. Abandoning all morals and self-respect, prepared to stab even their flesh and blood in the back if that’s what it takes. As I sit in my grandfather’s attic, dark and damp, I could hear the old house settle and creek as if it were crying for its lost owner. I sat on an old crate and stared helplessly out the small window peering over the harbor behind his home; I gaze out upon the old docks where I caught my first fish. As the rainy day progressed, I began to feel water running down my face.