Sweat
crawled upon his forehead, coaxing the bay rum down from out his hair and into
his eyes, making them smart and water. The fingers which on impulse cleared his
vision slunk now to the base of his spine, locking tight to the walnut stocks
and loosening the snub-nosed revolver from its trouser waistband, the gun’s
sudden absence marked by a remnant colophon of its horrible potential slowly
fading from his impressioned flesh.
Blinked.
Blinked
again, this time hard enough to momentarily blind himself in the room’s sterile
brightness and then, when he had once more wiped his eyes, watched his
outstretched arm begin to float up horizontal finally coming to rest fixed upon
the nurse shielding the first twin close to her breast, and screaming.
Father (quietly): Et in Arcadia ego.
