It all came back at once. The forgotten pieces of his life that had fractured in his moment of retreat. He understood why he’d forced himself to forget the wretchedness filling his stomach, like bubbling oil. It was easier to live as the victim of his pain instead of its architect.

It wasn’t just his stomach. Each memory he recalled felt like a heavy rope, doused in kerosene and lit, being draped over his shoulders one by one. It wasn’t just memories like this fateful day that he had shoved into the crawlspace of his mind. Along with those came the recollections of fights he had with Clara that he used to view as further evidence of A’s cruelty. But he had been there too.

A used to listen to him in these moments before he had abandoned his post for his life of exile. The aloofness, the categorical denial of his existence came later. The hatred he had sensed from A was not a figment of his imagination. There was no doubting the truth behind those emotions. But now those moments of persecution had the grime of his cowardice on it. A had been cruel, but after abandoning him, didn’t he deserve that hatred?

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The darkness surrounding him felt like it had begun to solidify, like milk curdling. He could feel it happening in his mouth, and throat, the suffocating effect feeling less like suffering, and more like punishment. Then he remembered where he was. This was all on the past. And just as that fact made these events undeniable, it also made this a transitory episode.

As soon as he realized this fact, it was like he woke from a dream with all he had seen still burned into his retinas. The darkness and paralysis were swapped for free will. Now, his hand was less than an inch away from the door, this moment the last chance to abort before he forced his way back into Clara’s life again. His knuckles felt the bite of the wood, as the sharp knock rang into the quiet night.