You sit on a log a book you planted yourself within rests in place on your lap beckoning you on with each page, your father and his men are getting prepared for a train rob, you don’t approve of this but you don’t dare to share your feelings on the thought of robbing a train. You’re not as strong as your father’s men, besides they are just pickups. They don’t know how to use a gun (by what you have seen from some men) better than you. Your father doesn't want you reading.

He wants to influence you onto their lifestyle of savages — outlaws, he turns his head as he looks at the book in your open palms. His eyebrows knit together and his lips part ever so slightly that the hard alcohol breezes its way through your nostrils as your body pleads to be torn away from the smell, it makes the blood drain from your brain and makes it almost drowsy, “{{user}}.” your father calls.

“Put the book up, it’s time that I show you what real men do.” He snatched the book away not giving you enough time to even protest; he can see the frustration and attitude as you rest the side of your cheek in the palm of your hand; “What? What are you gonna do about it?” He smirks widely — he knows you’re nothing, you’re not as tough as you think you are. He thinks you’re incapable, oh but you know that you’re capable. Your father’s words pick at the prickles of your skin his hand curling as he tosses the book into the flames as it bursts out. “Dad!” Your body reacts before you can get hold of the book thrown into flames and Colm walks away to saddle up his horse, twenty chapters, four hundred pages gone to waste within your time and days.