A short story left in my files. :) I didn't edit.
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Vigilant. It’s what his uncle used to say when Giles came sauntering into the old brown house that was peeling on the sides, dead grass out in front with a broken bike that needed a wheel and seat.
He didn’t have many friends, and his parents were barely home, so he’d wander to his uncle’s and linger there, it was a place where he felt safe.
His uncle always smoked cigarette’s, he wasn’t harsh unless he needed to be, but there was always a smile on his face, a calmness that set everyone into a casual position when they crowded the house during parties or gatherings.
Giles was young and he didn’t understand what it meant to be vigilant. He wanted to be more like his uncle who was unwavering before a man or woman who wanted something from him. This happened occasionally, his uncle would be sitting on his chair that had a rip on the seat and spray paint on the back, they’d either be drunk or drugged up, rarely they were sober, but they would wander into the house, pushing past whoever got in their way and confront him.
Giles sometimes wasn’t present, and when he was, he stood to the side, watching with his heart racing in his chest. Everyone else in the house either had their eyes on something else, or on his uncle.
They’d stand tall, chin pointed up, eyes downward, and their voice was harsh with disgust on their tongue. They’d say their piece and wait for his uncle to speak, and at times they weren’t even patient enough for that.
His uncle wasn’t old in the least, maybe in his mid thirties. He had a scruffy beard and short hair, eyes that lacked emotion when staring in the face of adversaries. He was casual enough to speak to people who wanted something from him, patient enough to keep his anger in, and he was always careful when he handled them.
Giles heard stories from his aunts that his uncle didn’t fight people that much, his words were enough, and when he did fight, it usually ended quick. He always wanted to see his uncle fight, and that night he did.
The man was too drunk, wobbling on his feet, shaking his head and spewing out words that Giles was affected too at his age.
The man accused his uncle of lies, something Giles didn’t understand, but the man laughed when his uncle did nothing, and when he drew close. His uncle reached out, grasped the front of the man’s shirt, and yanked him closer. Face-to-face, there was a quiet anger in his uncle’s eyes, and his voice was soft when he told the man to get his facts straight, to not walk into the house where there were children present, and trying to start a fight he was obviously not going to win. A fist slammed into the man’s face, and he stumbled to the side, falling to the floor at Gile’s feet. His uncle rose from his chair while more of the men and the woman drew into the room. Someone had grabbed Giles’ by the arm and dragged him away.
He didn’t see what happened after because of the crowd of his aunts, uncles, and cousins, but he heard the shouts and the groans until it stayed in his head for the entire night.
He seen his uncle the next morning with a cup of coffee on the table. He sat where he sat last night, his fists were pinkish, soft bruises forming, but other than that, he looked fine.
He smiled at Giles, and said, “Stay vigilant and your enemies will never see you coming.”
It’s what Giles remembered the most at twenty-four, holding a bouquet of flowers, wearing a clean black and white suit while he stood in front of his uncle’s grave.
He didn’t understand why that memory stuck with him, it was a drunk man accusing another man of lies, and his uncle simply beat him up. But it was one of the memories that stayed with him anyway, advice surrounded by violence that Giles didn’t like.
He lived a life his uncle would disapprove of, lying and stealing from others, fighting when he had too, but his uncle’s words stayed with him, the way he was, and how he remained was an influence that made him regret some of his decisions in life.
Giles placed the flowers down.
“Stay vigilant.”
