Faust, darling, what were you thinking?
Still depressed.
So here's a little fiction.
Inquest
by Samantha Chastain
Everything was fine at first. We were mostly happy - anyway, not unhappy enough to care. He was charming, interesting, as he had been since the beginning of our relationship. He had the romantic, messy mind of a novelist, one of the reasons I married him. I suppose that messiness enabled what came later. (Pause, next line said as answer) Well, he became - different. To put it mildly. I blame that book, or that story. That's how it all started, he had an idea. I mean, he always had ideas, the man could make a story out of the phone book. But this was different, this was new. He never told me about it, but I could tell, because he changed. Oh, it was gradual. I started to see less of him, and I worried that he was losing interest in me - a wife's panic. Those fears abated whenever I spent time with him, because he wasn't different yet. He seemed perfectly fine, and I suppose in those first few weeks he was. He was newly married, a successful writer with a new idea. What could have damaged that happiness? But then I suppose he started writing, really writing it. He usually outlined this, planned his stories beforehand, for a few weeks or so, and looking back I'm sure that his writing and his - descent - started at nearly the same time. He'd spend hours in his study, hours. And he'd sit there and write, and write, and write that thing, he did nothing else! When he came out he was wide-eyed, his breathing was quick, his gaze would jump from corner to corner, like he was waiting for shadows to attack. And then everything was finished for him. He was harsh, he was cold, he was out every night until two, three, four in the morning. I really couldn't tell you what he was doing. All manner of awful things, probably. Gambling, women, drugs, who knows what else.
I haven't read it. I don't want to. It killed him, and I don't want to see his murderer. I don't want to see what he became. If I read it I might start to understand. I don't want to understand. I don't want to understand.
So here's a little fiction.
Inquest
by Samantha Chastain
Everything was fine at first. We were mostly happy - anyway, not unhappy enough to care. He was charming, interesting, as he had been since the beginning of our relationship. He had the romantic, messy mind of a novelist, one of the reasons I married him. I suppose that messiness enabled what came later. (Pause, next line said as answer) Well, he became - different. To put it mildly. I blame that book, or that story. That's how it all started, he had an idea. I mean, he always had ideas, the man could make a story out of the phone book. But this was different, this was new. He never told me about it, but I could tell, because he changed. Oh, it was gradual. I started to see less of him, and I worried that he was losing interest in me - a wife's panic. Those fears abated whenever I spent time with him, because he wasn't different yet. He seemed perfectly fine, and I suppose in those first few weeks he was. He was newly married, a successful writer with a new idea. What could have damaged that happiness? But then I suppose he started writing, really writing it. He usually outlined this, planned his stories beforehand, for a few weeks or so, and looking back I'm sure that his writing and his - descent - started at nearly the same time. He'd spend hours in his study, hours. And he'd sit there and write, and write, and write that thing, he did nothing else! When he came out he was wide-eyed, his breathing was quick, his gaze would jump from corner to corner, like he was waiting for shadows to attack. And then everything was finished for him. He was harsh, he was cold, he was out every night until two, three, four in the morning. I really couldn't tell you what he was doing. All manner of awful things, probably. Gambling, women, drugs, who knows what else.
I haven't read it. I don't want to. It killed him, and I don't want to see his murderer. I don't want to see what he became. If I read it I might start to understand. I don't want to understand. I don't want to understand.