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SUMMARY: A piano man's kindness leads him to a devestaing ending.

Call me Jack. I do not know who my parents are, or even if they are still alive. My grandfather is the one who raised me in Oslo, Norway, and taught me all that life has to offer. When I was around seventeen years of age, he passed away. It was his death that spurred my persistence as a musician. I had taken a few lessons, but mainly taught myself playing songs that my grandpa loved. He loved the Beatles, and had many singles by John Lennon. He had countless other hits from the 70's and 80's. I then lived alone, separated from the busy and grainy lives of other businessmen. It wasn't until last year of 2004 that would forever change my life.
A young man took me aside and asked me, while fighting away his tears, if I would play for his dying father. I immediately followed this man to his father's bedside. There I played for countless hours throughout the night; his father died early the next morning with the look of peace and tranquility on his face, and the young man was grateful for my generosity. He never told me his name, and I never told him mine. As time passed he told others of how a stranger had played comforting tunes throughout the night for his passing father. Soon I was receiving countless requests from families wanting a peaceful ending to their loved ones lives. It soon became my job. I scuttled from house to house playing the same tunes over and over to the dying, sleeping and sick. I became to known as "the piano man", and nothing else. Toward the end of the year my "business" slowed to a halt. I was still content with what I had, although I never charged the families for my performance. I must admit I'm no concert pianist. Once in a while they would throw in a few pounds or two. They didn't care who I was or where I came from. All they wanted was my music.
Then it came, a letter from Ireland. It was a request from a poor family wanting my services. Their eldest son was on the verge of death, and had no chance of making it through. I could not deny their request; empathy was urging me to go on. I had no money; I couldn't even scrounge up enough to pay for a boat fare, let alone a passport. I came up with an idea. I removed all tags and markings from my clothes, (in case I was caught) brought only one small briefcase, and left out to sea in my old friends' fishing boat. He was forced along, knowing I had no knowledge of the sea; it was April 5th, 2005. We had excellent weather until evening crept upon us. When it rained, the skies discharged all of its strength upon us. When the waters became rough, our boat was a shifted, and tossed against the unrelenting muscle of the ocean. We had survived the night, but we could not make it through another storm. We gathered all the excess posts and busted planks, and threw together a make-shift raft in the center of his torn up deck. Me and this poor friend that I had drug along, just lay there, clinging with our lifeless, and dying hands. Both of us were shaking uncontrollably, we couldn't feel our legs. My friend did not even realize the splinters through his hands were keeping his grip from slipping.