Rain pounded angrily against the window, as the wind howled mournfully through the dark night. The dim, flickering light, cast out from the small fire in the corner of the room, shuddered once more and shrank even further back into its cold, white embers.
Philip Morris coughed throatily and scowled, clutching his white, overused handkerchief to his mouth like a ventilator, and stared in boredom at the static buzzing on his small TV screen.
He heaved himself to his feet and walked across the log cabin, leaning on a walking stick every step of the way. He turned the tuner on the TV with trembling hands and sighed, hitting the box in an outburst of frustration.
There was suddenly a huge bang and a low rumble of thunder as it tumbled through the air. “D***it,” Philip spat, “D***it, ya stupid idiot. It’s all your g*dd*** fault!” He kicked his patched sofa and erupted into another fit of coughing.
He knew he was near the end, he knew he didn’t have long left, but he also knew what he had to do, and right now, that was the most important thing of all.
He had to contact him. The priest. The priest who had saved him. All those years ago, the priest who had seen a boy, a boy on the edge, a boy in need. The priest who had adopted, brought up and saved Philip on numerous occasions and helped him to his feet.
Philip owed him everything and right now he had to tell him. He was the only one who would understand. But, of course, as fate would have it, they hadn’t spoken in fifteen years, and tonight, tonight was their last chance.
Philip Morris fell asleep almost instantly on his small sofa, a look of contentment spread across his face. A small letter rested on his chest as the cottage burned down around him, the cackle of thunder and chorus of wind and rain, mocking him as he died slowly.