Anatomy of Fear

16

He pores over the newspaper looking for some mention of his early work. But there is nothing. All they write about is the new one, the dead man on the Upper East Side. He cuts the story out, pins it above his desk, reaches for a pencil, still staring at the article, no longer reading it, the muscles around his eyes beginning to ache, type blurring. Then a picture starts to swirl in his mind like an eddy gathering force and he needs to draw it, to capture it on paper.

It’s just a fragment, but he recognizes it.

The big one, he thinks. Soon.

He prints the word PATIENCE below his drawing and puts it aside, but his hand has begun to tremble as a memory slithers into his unconscious and hangs there, a web ready to snare him.

No way he will allow it.

He drops to the floor, balancing on fingertips and boot tips.

Up, down. Up, down. Up, down.

His own private hell, fueling him like hot coals.

Up, down. Up, down.

The sweat has begun to drip from his forehead and gather under his armpits.

Up, down. Up, down. Up, down.

Faster now, blood pumping, fingers aching, arm muscles quivering, breath expelled like gunshots.

Up, down. Up, down.

The demons are breaking up the way his drawings come together, fragmenting, dissolving.

Up, down. Up, down. Up, down. Up, down.

There they go, gone. Dust.

His arms give out. He rolls onto his side, drawing in breath after breath, then slowly pulls himself up and regards his fragmented drawing, recognizes it as just a portion of his opus, his major work, the pieces not quite there yet. In the back of his mind there are mini-explosions like Fourth of July fireworks, gorgeous, thrilling, and he knows in time the drawing will come together and he will make it real.