Life has lead us part. That is what he said, but I do not believe him. He stand there watching my reaction, as he decides to leave. I stare back. Silently I memorize his face. The face of the person I love deep down. Hopefully he loves me too, to some degree.

I silently ask why, with my eyes not leaving his. He says he has to go, leave behind his sentiment. I watch as he leaves. Tears streak down my face. Maybe he never loved me. I pace and I pace. Soon he is gone. He has disappeared into the horizon.

Turning, I walk down a path toward my new future. I remember how he talked, philosophically. He mentioned his life. He spoke about a bucket, that was meant to be filled and emptied. I guess I was in his bucket, and was dumped out accordingly.

She walked the beaten path of stones and pebbles along the beachside. A wave of sentiment came over her as she saw a pale blue bucket in the sand. She picked it up and remembered the days when she used to play with her brother in the sand. Seagulls would caw overhead and the wind would blow their hair around until they looked like clowns. Nowadays the only time they looked like clowns was in the workplace. She took off her shoes and sank her feet into the sand letting it run freely over her skin. She started strolling, bucket in hand, shoes in the bucket, hair loose, heart heavy. She breathed in the salty air and started walking towards the coastline, closer to the waves. When the sand got softer, she sat down and laid on her back, turning her face towards the sun. Eventually, she dozed off and when she woke up again the sun was setting and the air was getting chilly. She memorized the scene around her. The smooth stones, the soft sand, the warm pinks and oranges of the sky, the deep blue of the sea and the calm that surrounded her at that moment. Smiling to herself, she looked at the sand around her to see if there was a seashell that she could take home with her. She wandered back to the rockier part of the beach and found one. Perfectly round and smooth except for one little crack on the side. Like Chip from "Beauty and the Beast". She added the shell to her bucket and went back to the path, putting her shoes back on when the ground became too rocky. Her car unlocked with a chirp and she put the bucket with the seashell in the backseat on top of a sheaf of divorce papers that she was supposed to deliver. Oh well. Guess the bastard would have to wait. She started up her car and drove off. At the stop sign, she stopped and looked from left to right. Not seeing anybody, she turned right. She continued driving. It was a straight road until the highway and she would get off in a couple of exits to drop off the papers. She was stopped at a traffic light, pondering the degree to which she could push the envelope in her relationship when from the right a car came careening around the bend and slammed into hers. In seconds she was out.

A kick to the ribs was his wake up call. The speaker in the corner of the cell crackled. "Get up," a distorted voice said.

McGee squinted. He coughed out the pain. The guard's boot struck mostly scar tissue, but McGee let the guard think his kick did more damage than it did.

"There's a bucket in the corner. You have two minutes to memorize the map inside it. Follow the instructions carefully. Any deviation from the instructions will result in death," the voice said.

He scrambled to his feet. The metal bucket reminded him of the ones his Uncle Jack used to milk cows on his farm. Even though this was not the time to be sentimental, he wanted to fill his mind with good memories in case today was his last day alive.

McGee skimmed the instructions on the map. It was a lot of mumbo jumbo about latitudes, longitudes, and coordinates. Those didn't mean a thing to him. He had never regretted his English degree more than in that moment. The only written instructions were to not stray from the path. He scanned the map for landmarks or any clues that would help him. There were none.

The guard snatched the map from his hands. He lit it on fire and threw it in the bucket. He jammed his rifle into McGee's back. The barrel of the rifle felt strangely at home in his back.

"Go," the guard said nodding.

McGee didn't need to be told twice. He smelled smoke, but didn't look back.

A helicopter thundered above him. McGee raised his hands above his head. He was powerless, whether it was impending rescue or the guards hunting him for sport.

The helicopter landed beside the path. Soldiers motioned to him, shouting for him to run to them.

He ignored them. He knew it was a trap. Defeated, they slid the door shut, flying off in search of other prey.

He walked for days on the path. McGee tried to motivate himself with those quotes about pain just being weakness leaving the body. Everything except hope had left his body.

A familiar house and barn appeared to him in the distance. His Uncle Jack's farm. It couldn't be. Surely the rebels had taken it. The throes of dehydration had to be causing him to hallucinate.

He saw his uncle. Time had taken its toll. He walked with a stoop and a shuffle, but still carried two buckets filled to the brim.

McGee doubted his uncle would recognize him in his emaciated state. Instinctively he raised his hands above his head and treaded lightly.

The livestock became aware of the stranger first. Restlessly they shuffled and made noise.

Uncle Jack shielded his eyes from the sun to look upon the weary figure approaching him.

"About time you showed up," Uncle Jack said.