Franz peered into the blue oblivion, deep in thoughts about life. Winds of despair caressed his cheeks. He sat on the deck of the same lake, which filled his childhood memories. The water of the lake shimmered under the red-orange hues of the evening sun. He swam in these waters, fished with his father on weekends and made tiny paper boats when he was a child. The lake was in his small village where peculiar men lived, and they lived by their own rules. The fast city life was an outcast in their little world. But Franz saw things differently. When he crossed the perimeters of his city, he stumbled upon books, photographs, cinema; he met people that redefined him. His outlook towards life changed. He no longer wanted to die without leaving a mark on the world. He wanted to be remembered for something, no matter how small it was. The quiet village life no longer fascinated him. The city had captured his heart. His heart pumped ecstasy in the loud city music, his feet thumped to the beats, his eyes awed at the skyscrapers lighting up the dark sky. He had outgrown from the timid boy to a man with zeal, ready to take on the world. The hardships could not pull him down. Every fall encouraged him to get up, brush off disappointments from his mind, and work again.
His passion for legacy awarded him. The awards filled him with Euphoria; his success made him forget everything beyond himself. Franz's father congratulated his son in letters. He never failed to boast about his son's success to his friends. Why would he? His son had brought fame to the entire village. Franz wrote back to his father every week, the whole page filled with the upcoming achievements he longed for, similar to a little kid who, in his prayers to God, recites a list of toys he wants but fails to express gratitude when he gets them. And his father, like the eternal God, didn't wish for anything more than his son's happiness.
The city lights blinded his need for emotional attachment; his hollow heart plastered with achievements.
He sat on the deck of the same lake where his father had taught him fishing. A grilled fish steak for dinner on weekends, with freshly caught fish, was essential to his father.
"It is like a family tradition. You have to keep it alive!" His father had said.
The fishing line tightened. Franz got up and fiercely spun his reel.
It was a long fight. The calm lake water turned violent, and the creatures halted their humdrum as they witnessed the fight. The fish could endure no more. She thrashed her tail and tried to wiggle out of his hands when he pulled the hook from her mouth. He looked at the fish for some time, wondering about the purpose of her life, before thrusting his knife right behind her eye, through her brain. A quick, painless death. He sliced out her gills, scales and entrails before placing her in the ice bucket and walked back to his home.
***
He sat down at the dining table, now old and weary, unable to bear his weight. He faced his aged father, framed in wood, hanging on the wall beside his young mother. His mother had always been this young since he had seen her. He opened the letter on the table, a yellow page scribbled with shaky handwriting, his father's last words. Franz received this letter when he was in the city, a month back. But it was too late.
He tasted the grilled fish steak in the dimly lit room in the presence of his father, whose memories had filled his hollow heart, and his mother, who he had no recollection of.
Franz, again, found purpose in life. He had to keep the family tradition alive. This will be his mark on the world.