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back, demanding my withdrawal. But I ignored him as well,
instead returning inside.
While I was apparently entering a material structure, I felt
as if I were passing into the halls of my own mind, where
a secret past barely lived, having nearly been crushed to
death beneath so much time and neglect. One room above
all others called to me, and I instantly knew why. It was a
most curious art gallery—an ever-growing tribute to visions
lurking the other side of the eye. It was a secret place hiding
beyond a false wall. Its presence was so smartly concealed,
not even the inhabitants of the house knew of it—save for
the master of the gallery, my father.
My real father, through means of his artist’s blood. The
memory I’d chased round in a circle finally stood still,
waiting for me to seize it. My real father was an artist from
hell, whose paints were the stuff of the unraveled human
body, the incomplete translation of a dream. He strived,
perhaps quite in vain, to return flesh to its rightful place—
in service to the dreams it tried so hard to forget. But like
all those before him—and quite possibly after him—he had
failed. I realized, sooner than I was prepared for, that I had
always been my father’s son. I unconsciously outlined his
life’s purpose, all while walking and waking as he had—
lonely and inspired and lethal. I could remember nothing
else about living in the house, save perhaps the still-glowing
embers of a single horrible night.

***

My father took me gently by the arm and led me through
a great hallway. The darkness of an unlit room fell over us,
but his pace remained brisk. A door was opened somewhere,
and I could feel a cold breeze kiss my cheeks. I breathed
it in, tasting smoke and death. There were stairs leading

222 | Mark Anzalone