XIII.

Claire found her husband in his office, late that night, drinking. This was unusual. For a long time now, he’d relegated his drinking to social events only. But here he was in his own home, his children awake and downstairs, badly drunk off scotch. He sat slumped in his easy chair, watching TV. On it, they were talking about that terrible fire at the library that had cost all those poor people their lives. She came over to him and stroked his short hair.

                

“Honey? Should I be worried?” she said.

                

Marc Uriah looked up at her, his downturned eyes red and ragged. “What was that, Claire?”

                

“I said, should I be worried, love?”

                

“Worried…?” he asked, speaking like someone dragged out of a dream. “Why should you be worried?”

                

Claire straddled him and said, “Because…you’re not acting like yourself.”

                

She held his forehead to her chest, petting him. He let her and held her back by the waist.

                

“I…” he started, trying to respond. But some emotion climbed up his throat and choked his words.

                

“You what?” Claire said, raising his head by the cheeks so he would look at her.

                

“I…have a lot of things to think about…”

                

“Would you like to talk about them?”

                

“I want to…but I’m not sure I have the words…”

                

“But, honey, you’re a writer,” she said.

                

He looked at her with sadness. “Even writers at times run out of words.”

                

“Hmmmm…” she said, her lips going slanted. “Well, when you find them, you promise to come find me?”

                

“I can promise that…”

                

She gave him a playful pat on both cheeks. “Good. I’m going to go care for our children.”

                

He nodded, his head lilting up and down heavily.

                

She got off his lap and stood to leave. But when she was at the door, he called to her.

                

“Yes?” she asked.

                

“Please…tell the kids I love them…and know…I love you too…”

                

“I’ll tell them. And I do know. I hope you figure out whatever all this is.”

                

“Believe me,” he said, his voice for the first time sounding sober, “I hope so too.”

                

She nodded at him, gave him a smile, then left him and closed the door behind her. He picked up his cup of scotch and stared into the rippling orange of the drink. He looked into that drink for a long time, wondering if from that day onward it would be a necessary evil in his life. So far, it’d been the only thing he’d done that day that made any sense to him. Drink away his confusion and guilt, deaden himself inside. He tossed it back, let it rain down his gullet, felt it burn its way into him the way that blasted coal had burned the boy. It purified him of his senses, just the way that he intended.

                

He tried standing then. Only, a grinding chainsaw of a headache sat him right back down. He closed his eyes and massaged his forehead with both hands. He tried standing again. This time, he made it. Stumbling, he walked over to his desk, where the vision had occurred. He picked up his notebook he’d been writing in (he always preferred writing in a notebook first before committing to print) and read the passage he’d been working on before all this began.

               

Just beyond the veil that shields our realm from reality, a pulsating love beats. It guides and governs and draws all men to its call. But men, they shield themselves from it, they plug their ears, obstinate, for love is a terrible thing. It seeks to turn the object of its passion into its best possible self by any means necessary, pain and anguish be damned. How then can man be blamed for shunning such affections? Who could live scrutinized to this degree? Not even the best amongst us.

                

Except, there are at times those who dare to try. This is the story of such a one…

                

It was as far as he had gotten. Who this hero was that ventured to try and live in accordance with love, Marc Uriah didn’t know. The hero hadn’t even yet received a name. Marc Uriah typically wrote under the possession of Art, uncovering his own plans as the story progressed. He wondered, could he, now, continue what he’d begun, in spite of his state. He sat down to find out.

                

The one was a writer type. He’d been lead down a confusing path, twisting and winding like a horror mansion maze. Lead and left there to fend for himself. He could do what was natural and despair. Or, he could strengthen himself and search for the way to the end of the path. Either response was perilous, he realized. The first came with certain benefits, ease the most obvious among them. The second guaranteed nothing but the possibility of escape.

                

Was there truly a choice to be made? He laced up his boots, for he wore boots, and marched forward. He came across his first obstacle quickly. It was: where to go from here. A decisive man would choose a road and to hell with the consequences. But writer types, they overthink things. Concerned with the myriad of potential outcomes, they paralyze themselves with possibilities. Was this to his advantage? Could his imagination lead him out of danger?

                

He was prepared to find out.

                

Marc Uriah put down his pencil. What he’d written had been short, and yet, it’d wearied him.

Out in the hallway, he could hear Claire doing as she promised: caring for the children, guiding them to their rooms. They talked joyously to one another, joking and laughing. Then, as they reached their doors:

“Is daddy coming to say goodnight?” asked his older girl, Emily.

“Not tonight, sweetie, he’s lost in his ideas,” Claire replied, her voice comforting.

“Do you know what the story he’s working on is about?” asked Darwin, his boy.

“You know. He couldn’t tell me yet,” said Claire.

“That sucks,” said Darwin.

“Yeah,” responded Claire, “But, I’m sure he’ll be able to soon. Sometimes, it takes a while for him to get to where he wants to go.”

“I guess,” said Darwin. “Well, goodnight, mom.”

“Yeah, goodnight, mom!” echoed Emily.

“Goodnight, you two. And no reading tonight. It’s already late,” said Claire.

It was obvious the two didn’t like this. But quickly, they acquiesced. This was a well-run family and arguing never got them anywhere. Soon enough, both their doors went closed. So did the door to the room Marc Uriah shared with his wife.

He was left alone with the words he’d written. He read them then, then read them again.

He sighed. Was the writer type hero truly prepared to find out?

Not even Marc Uriah knew.