The Wall of the Sky, the Wall of the Eye

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I left her in the bedroom, and went and poured myself a drink. I felt it now; there wasn’t any doubt. But I didn’t want to tell her, not yet. I wanted to stretch it out for as long as I could. It had been so quick, this time.

In the meantime I wanted to see the kid.

I took my drink and went into his room and sat down on the edge of his bed. His night light was on; I could see I’d woken him. Maybe he’d heard me clinking bottles. Maybe he’d heard us making love.

“Dad,” he said.

“Peter.”

“Something the matter?”

Peter was twelve. A good kid, a very good kid. He was just eleven when I died. All computers and stereo, back then. Heavy metal and D and D. Sorcerers, dragons, the flaming pits of Hell, the whole bit. And music to match. After I died and came back he got real serious about things, forgot about the rock music and the imaginary Hells. Gave up his friends, too. I was pretty worried about that, and we had a lot of big talks. But he stayed serious. The one thing he stuck with was the computer, only now he used it to map out real Hell. My Hell.

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