Ego had taken all of the family money and headed straight for some island in the native part of the world. It wasn’t a lot but it was everything they had and it hurt. It hurt in every way someone could hurt somebody. On the night Ego left he looked in on his son… he touched his soft cheek… he smiled… he took some comfort in knowing that this boy would never know him. From this island beach Ego imagines out into the ocean… he imagines his son (probably driving now) happy… happy with a girl and a kiss and the touch of a soft hand. Ego sips off his drink. The wind flips his paper. The kids nearby scream at play. The world slows. Ego dreams. When his cell rings he looks at the screen: ID UNAVAILABLE. He thinks of the irony in that. He smirks. He sits alone in his own mediocrity and sniffs. FUCK IT. Ego used to speak French. He used to order his meals at French places in French and it had always bothered everyone who ever had the misfortune to eat with him. Ego was a shitty tipper. Ego was mean. Ego never did anything or said anything that didn’t somehow benefit himself. Ego was shit. He lived that way and he lived alone… Ego reveled in it.