The waves crashed against the tall sea wall. The smell of salt water filled the air as the fishermen sat on the end of the pier. Their fishing rods almost rotting away. The fishermen were staring at the vast ocean, Vacant looks on their faces as the sat looking out into the bleak darkness. The night's sky flickered with bleached white stars, shining on a canvas of black. In the centre of this canvas sky was the moon, a white circle of good fighting in the centre of evil.

As the hours passed the fishermen got up and left. One by one they picked up there bait and their rotting rods and went home to their families. The once vibrant pier now occupied by a lone fisherman, his face still vacant of all thoughts. The cool air brushed against his skin, as gentle as a feather and as soft as silk. Goosebumps went up the fisherman's spine. The mans face, although still only young in age, was covered in wrinkles. Each indentation telling a tale of his past like a medieval book.

The ocean rocked and swayed, as wooden fishing boats drifted along it's brownish blue surface, their lights piercing in thick mist, yellow cat like eyes peering into a cursed soul. Fishing nets raked the ocean, hunting for the creatures of the deep. At the ocean's floor a little cat fish swerved and weaved past the nets, like an adventurer in a film..

As the clocked chimed 12 O'clock the last remaining holiday makers made their way off the pier, but still the lone fisherman sat at the end of the pier staring into the mist like a clairvoyant looking into a crystal ball. every he did the same thing. And every time a tear rolled down his face. Because he knew that's as hard as he tried the cancer was going to win.