Ava Monologue

The old man lifted his head so that the glare was in his eyes. The tulips were blossoming, the grass a luscious, vivid green. His granddaughter Ava frolicked through the garden, all alone, yet still bursting at the seams with pure elation and contentment. He was grateful that autumn had not yet dawned. For a moment, happiness filled the old man’s mind. He lowered his head. Once again, he remembered.
A flush of anger asphyxiated him in that moment. All of these years had passed and he was still here, anchored to the earth with nothing but the desperate desire to leave. Ava waved from the bright side of the dirt-encrusted window, and as quickly as it came, the anger passed.
Eventually, the sun set, meaning only one thing. It was time to fight

The day he joined the bikie gang. The day that marked his 30th year of service. And the day he dismissively flicked his hand when the rivals threatened to kill.
That was the day he helplessly watched his wife, daughter and her husband taken at the hands of the foe.
That was the day that the three gunshot blows became his own shadow.
He awoke to the sun peeping over the horizon and through the dusty wooden blinds. The sudden brightness startled him. He took a breath, lifted his head, and gently observed the mystifying beauty of the landscape. But he lowered his head. Once again, he remembered.
Today was the day. He could feel it. His body was decrepit, but his mind had never been stronger. The river would be adequate. His fragile bones creaked as he pulled himself out of the armchair, his bare feet leaving marks in the morning dew. The river was no more than one hundred metres away, but the journey lasted a lifetime. His head drooped morosely, staring at his feet as he walked.
He reached the river bank. Never before had he felt so ready. He lifted his head, eyes glowering with