Another Man's Life: a Novel by Steven W. Horn

Another Man's Life: a Novel by Steven W. Horn

Author:Steven W. Horn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: BookBaby
Published: 2012-12-15T00:00:00+00:00


CHAPTER 14

“He who pretends to look on death without fear lies.

All men are afraid of dying, this the great law

of sentient beings, without which the

entire human species would soon be destroyed.”

Jean-Jacques Rousseau

La Nouvelle Heloise

5:55 a.m.

SHE LAY SLEEPING ON HER SIDE, FACING OUTWARD, ONLY the thin sheet covering her nakedness. She had stopped wearing a nightgown when Jessica left home. Eden marveled at how beautiful she still was. Only five months separated them, but she looked much younger. He had turned 57 in May. In the mornings he felt like it. He was still slim and muscular with almost as much hair as in his youth, but it was mostly gray now. Elizabeth was as trim as the day he’d first seen her. Her hair was graying, too, and she let it. The silvery streaks only accentuated her flawless skin and youthful radiance. When she smiled, her entire body smiled. He never tired of looking at her.

The dawn’s quiet magnified the creaking floorboards in the hallway as he shifted his weight in the partially open doorway. Elizabeth stirred but did not awaken. He looked at her as a father looks at his daughter, with awe and respect for her individuality and with hopeful anticipation for her future. The memories of her growth in their relationship were warm and he cherished them. His eyes began to burn. When she was awake, he could never express how he felt about her. She sometimes complained that he was impenetrable, always distant. The guilt was with him constantly and he feared discovery with every waking moment. He loved her and hated himself.

There were close calls, when the moment was right for him to reveal his secrets. They would bubble up from deep within him, his heart would race and his hands tremble. At the last second he would clamp his mouth shut and swallow the black cancer that consumed him from within. Sometimes it made him physically ill to ingest the foul tasting bolus that was his past. But he could not stand the thought of betraying her image of him. It was better that he not see her at all when she learned the truth. And she would know the truth soon.

It was time, but he could not close the door. He loved watching her sleep. Sometimes after the nightmare, he would sit in the wingback reading chair and watch her. Often she would awaken and ask if he was all right. He would say that he was fine and tell her to go back to sleep. When he returned to bed, he would gently slide in next to her, touching the warmth of her body, making the slightest contact. Her body was a poultice for his anguish. As long as he touched her, he would sleep. He slowly closed the door. He was weak with grief.

In the living room he picked up the revolver and placed it in his pocket, under his shirt. He did not stop to inspect mementos. There was no more time for trips down memory lane.



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