Soul of the Cerberus [NEW]

Chapter 1- Homebound

!!! Completely updated version of the book is published on: https://tapas.io/series/Soul-of-the-Cerberus

I drew long deep breaths as I finally arrived in my hometown. I was standing on the deck of the ferry, transporting me from Split to Korčula. Usually, I've spent my summer in Split, where I was studying arts at the University of Split. Although I loved the busy streets of the bigger cities, it was nothing compared to the smaller one, which was bursting with history and culture. I loved narrow streets and old buildings made of stone.

The city was surrounded by walls and represented a great attraction for tourists. Summer months were my favorites since the little city was bustling with foreign people, ready to spend money either on restaurants or markets full of souvenirs and jewelry.

I sighed in content as I braided my long, thick and almost black hair that reached past the middle of my back. The wind made the task almost impossible as it persistently blew in my face. I threw huge old hiking backpack over my shoulders and took a few wobbly steps towards the crowded exit of the ship. I really shouldn't have taken so many books with me. I've exaggerated every time and took almost every art book I owned even though I barely had time to touch neither of them in the end. But this was my last year in college and soon I will start working towards my very own gallery. Well, at least I've hoped to open a little shop with my paintings.

I brushed a few runaway hair strands from my face as I pushed through the people who were jostling one another. As I finally made my way down to the port, reflected with moonlight and city lights I took the island in. Restaurants were full of chattering people even if there was only the beginning of June. Boats relentlessly transported tourist from the island back to the mainland. Little shops were already open offering every little thing consumer's heart desired.

Mother and father probably already opened their shop over a month ago. Father would still be working with the fishing company if it weren't for my mother's talent. My mother, Ivana Varga made the most beautiful little clay statues and figurines. Her products extended from candle holders, Virgin Mary statues to depictions of island attractions. She used various ornaments and seashells to make handmade jewelry.

My mother truly was a resourceful and entrepreneurial person, but my father wasn't. He wouldn't differentiate between individual pieces of jewelry or materials mother was making products with, even if his life would've depended on it. He didn't have a clue how to attract or please costumers. And he definitely didn't know how to run a store, no matter how small it was.

Yes, my father, Boris, was a disaster in the making, but he was a kindhearted man. All the locals knew him and absolutely adored him. He was five years older than my mother and very close to his 56th birthday. He was a plump-cheeked man with a rounded belly and graying hair. His beard was reaching to his chest, which mother absolutely despised, but no matter what, he refused to shave.

Father was a charismatic man who loved his cigars, morning coffee, and endless meaningless chatter. He was a proud owner of the 20-year-old wooden boat, which was already heavily overgrown with algae and slightly rotting on the edges. But until he still had his boat and a fishing rod, he was a happy man.

Mother was constantly irritating him with her nagging about his laziness, but she also loved him with her whole heart. They still held their hands or stole a few kisses from one another when they thought they were alone. Boris may act as he didn't have a care in the world, but he did try his best. He would do everything to see his family safe and sound, at every cost.

I was told my mother was always an artistic soul. Both, Ivana and Boris were born and raised on the island and while Boris was a fisherman as a young man, Ivana was painting portraits of passersby or anyone who took an interest in art. She didn't have a shop then, she was still painting on the streets.