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to Tom, but my father would sooner set me aflame than let
me dwell upon them.
I loved my father. He taught me how to summon the fire
of my body, how to own it and to kill with it. He showed me
death, let me hold it in my hands, play with it, master it. I
remember the heft of his shadow, the smell of his ruined skin,
the thunder coiled in his voice. And now, after everything he
was to me, he would deny me a part of myself? Though it
pained me, I finally resolved that if he would not step aside,
I would have no choice but to force him to recall the one
lesson I’d taught him, the one he had failed to teach me—
how to die.
The approach to Warfield Sanitarium was thick with trees,
which only assisted me as I made my way to the main fence
enclosing several small gardens and koi ponds. A single leap
put me on the other side, and I stared up at the building,
soaked to its steel and concrete bones with madness. I could
hear its soul, a song no longer restricted to meter and tempo,
fully free despite its body of walls. I slipped into and beyond
a service entrance foolishly left ajar.
The interior was remarkable, every inch the face of a
practiced sociopath—tender with flourishes of false empathy,
and totally placid in places where one might expect a dash
of compassion. A soft music played into the darkness of the
hallways, almost a lullaby. Here was the comedy of lunatics,
trying to pass off pigeons for doves, water for wine.
I entered the first room I came upon, encountering a man
secured to his bed with strong leather straps. As I’d hoped,
there was a button located on the bed that could be pressed
to summon an orderly or nurse. The man awoke quietly,
looking at me with no small amount of concern. He did not
speak, but only eyed my father with fear. I’m sure I was
an awful sight, with my coat of shadows and red-dimmed
family eager to escape their resting places. I put a finger to
my lips, and he nodded in understanding. He even smiled as

172 | Mark Anzalone