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Lewis walked to the edge of the river. Pieces of silt caught his eyes, floating gently down the path. He found himself envying the steady calm of the water. His life had become a whirl of emotions, and he was ill prepared to deal with them. Love, hate, lust, Morse's jealousy and possessiveness, and a series of brutal murders on top of that were clamoring in his head, all demanding equal time for consideration.
Almost as if he were on the outside looking in, he was disturbed by the willingness of Valerie and himself to let their twelve-year marriage come to an end without so much as a whimper of protest.
Morse said that he loved him. Lewis longed to be loved, and to give his love whole-heartedly, to posses and be possessed.
Now fantasy was rapidly becoming reality.
It scared him.
Immensely.
Not only due to the threat of losing himself, but the knowledge that his wish was coming true, and that he should be waiting for something to go wrong.
He was cursed by the eternal belief that he did not deserve the happiness that was being handed to him: all that he ever wanted.
He wondered why.
Why here? Why now? Is it for real or just another way to make me suffer?
Depression was very real for Lewis. However, unlike Morse who wore his depression as a mark of one of the last, great, tragic philosophers, Lewis hid his, ashamed of his weakness, behind a facade of cheery stupidity. His was neither the badge of a man of learning, nor of a great actor, but a common chemical imbalance that did not make him a great thinker, only a sad and lonely man in a sea of millions as common as him.
Morse would be looking for him now, worried, but Lewis could not bring himself to stand up and go back home. To have to pretend that everything was fine, that he did not feel the weight of some importance bearing down upon him, would be too much to endure for the moment. He needed the time to rebuild his defenses, to protect himself.
He closed his eyes tightly, and rubbed the lids. Bursts of colors in the darkness, only now they had assumed faced and names. All were lovely young men, all were innocent looking, and all were dead.
Yes, he could see it coming.
And he did not know if he wished to stop it or not.
Morse stopped his red Jag, watching Lewis at the edge. Lewis looked so despondent, more so than ever before. What did he need to do to get Lewis to trust him? Familiar stubbornness could only stall him. Eventually, somehow he would get Lewis to open up. He trudged over to where Lewis was sitting. He loved to watch Lewis unaware. It was fascinating to watch unguarded emotions flicker across his gray-blue eyes. Now, there was such bleakness, it nearly broke Morse's heart. He walked up behind Lewis, hearing his hitching, uneven breathing, and reached forward to gently caress Lewis' neck.
Lewis jumped, and turned around. Seeing Morse there, he breathed out heavily. "It's you."
"Expecting someone else, Lewis?"
"No, sir. I wasn't expecting anybody."
Morse sighed. "Can you call me something other than 'sir', please?"
Lewis smiled. "Morse," he said. "Unless you want to tell me your first name."
Morse shook his head. "Thank you, Robbie." He watched Lewis smile, knowing that the joy he saw was genuine.