Shameless Short Stories

I should've died on that godforsaken island. That's the honest truth. I should've been torn apart, trampled, drowned—hell, eaten whole by that goddamn Spinosaurus. But fate had other plans. It spat me back out into the real world, a world where people didn't have to run for their lives every second, where the biggest problem a guy faced was a mortgage payment or a bad case of indigestion. And let me tell you, that world? It didn't feel real anymore.

At first, I thought I could adjust. Amanda and Eric tried to help me. They said I had PTSD, that I needed to talk to someone. Talk to someone? About what? About how I could still hear that beast roaring in my sleep? How I could still feel the sweat running down my back as I ran from things that weren't supposed to exist? How I sometimes looked at people and saw nothing but meat, the same way those raptors did? Yeah, sure. Real healthy conversation starter.

So I did what any man in my position would do—I started drinking.

At first, it was just a beer here and there, something to take the edge off. But one beer turned into two, two turned into five, and before I knew it, I was waking up in places I didn't recognize, with a mouth full of stale whiskey and a head that felt like it had been cracked open by a Velociraptor's claw. Amanda tried. God, she really tried. She begged me to get help, to think about Eric. But all I could think about was that island.

Kirby Paint and Tile+ went under fast. Who the hell wants to buy paint from a guy who jumps every time the wind howls? I spent the last of my savings on a scheme to breed exotic fish—dinosaurs of the sea! I'd yell at investors, sloshing a bottle of bourbon as I pitched them my brilliant idea. Nobody bit. Shocker.

Amanda finally left. Took Eric with her. I don't blame her. I wouldn't have stayed either.

That's when I started losing time. I'd black out for days, wake up with bruises I couldn't explain, debts I didn't remember making. I stopped being Paul Kirby, the man who survived Isla Sorna. I became some drifting, brain-damaged mess of a guy who could barely string two thoughts together unless they involved how to get my next drink.

And then, one day, I just stopped calling myself Paul.

The first time someone called me Frank, I didn't correct them. It was in some dive bar in Chicago, and some guy—a real scumbag, the kind of guy who smelled like cigarettes and bad decisions—slapped me on the back and said, "Frank! You slippery bastard, where the hell you been?"

I had no idea who he was. But I grinned, raised my glass, and said, "Ah, you know me—always finding trouble."

And just like that, Paul Kirby was extinct.

Frank Gallagher took his place.

Frank Gallagher didn't have an ex-wife who looked at him like he was a ghost. He didn't have a son who used to idolize him but now barely spoke his name. He didn't have memories of watching a friend get eaten alive while he stood there, helpless. No, Frank Gallagher was just some drunk, some hustler, some nobody. And that? That was easier.

I fell in with a crowd that didn't ask questions. Guys who lived off scams and government checks, who knew how to stretch a buck in ways that would make a financial advisor cry. I learned fast. The key was confidence—sell the lie hard enough, and people will believe anything. Hell, I convinced some poor bastard that I used to be an astronaut. First man to drink whiskey on the moon! I slurred, and he bought me another round.

Sometimes, late at night, I'd forget who I was supposed to be. I'd wake up in a gutter somewhere, shivering, smelling like piss and cheap liquor, and for a second—just a second—I'd remember Isla Sorna. The way the jungle smelled after the rain, the way my heart hammered when I heard something moving in the trees. And I'd remember Eric. His face when we finally found him, the way he hugged me so tight like he never wanted to let go.

But then morning would come, and I'd drown those memories in whatever bottle I could find.

Years passed. I lost track of time. I heard Amanda remarried, that Eric was doing great—some honors student, probably gonna be a scientist or a doctor or something. Good for him. He deserved better than me.

Then, one day, some guy sits down next to me at a bar. He's older, grayer, but I know that face. Alan Grant.

For a second, I think maybe I'm hallucinating. Wouldn't be the first time. But no, it's really him. And the look in his eyes? It's not anger. It's pity.

"Jesus, Paul," he says.

"Frank," I correct, taking a sip of my beer.

He doesn't say anything for a while. Just watches me. And I know what he sees—a washed-up drunk, a man who's been running so long he forgot what he was running from.

"You never really left that island, did you?" he finally says.

I laugh. A real, bitter laugh. "Did you?"

He doesn't answer. Just shakes his head.

We sit in silence for a while, two ghosts of Isla Sorna, two men who should've died a long time ago but somehow didn't. Then he pulls something out of his pocket. A photo.

Eric. Grown up. Happy.

"He ever ask about me?" I ask, my voice rough.

Alan hesitates, and that's all the answer I need.

I nod, finishing my drink.

"You gonna keep running?" he asks.

I think about it. About the years I lost, about the son I abandoned, about the life I let rot away like a corpse in the jungle.

Then I signal the bartender for another round.

"Yeah," I say, forcing a grin. "I think I am."

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DGW: Hello everyone, thank you for reading, this story was brought to you by the new Jurassic World movie trailer and Paul having the same actor as Frank. If you have any complaints feel free to tell me as I have not finished Shameless

Word Count: 1068