Finding Garfield 4

art by Danilo Zammattio

James desired emotional and physical stability, and specifically verbal confirmation of such. Crete had not said anything contrary to his desire to be together in normal circumstances as soon as possible. And yet, perhaps he had an unrealistic expectation for her to express affection the way he did. He nearly ended their blossoming relationship over this impossible expectation.  Lucretia loved him in her own way, and if she did not, she would not have continued their relationship. She was in a position in which it would have been easy to stop returning letters and disappear into obscurity.  But she remained and continued to support his ideas and dreams. Nonetheless, as he drifted off to sleep, he questioned her love and prayed for a different expression of it.

…

“Many tired souls weigh heavy on me tonight,” the entity anguished in a soft voice. The depth of her sorrow was evidenced by the iridescent indigo waves radiating from her skin. James deeply understood. Their weeping pressed in on him from all sides, aggressively crushing his heart. Relentless waves of anger, fear, and confusion.

As this being bore the brunt of each hit, James longed to comfort or help her, but the circumstances were beyond his understanding.

All he knew was that it hurt.

An ache so resonant in his chest that its source must surely be outside of his body.

A being unto itself.

This pain unlike any other.

And yet, she terribly endured more.

Ceaselessly more.

James collapsed onto his knees, unable to further tolerate the agony of this eternal grief,

and found himself nearly on top of someone.

He nearly forgot his misery when he recognized her.

Her cheeks and eyes were wet. Confused, he tried to speak, but she hushed him and pulled him into an embrace. They clutched each other and wept in ethereal silence. Their matching blue eyes pouring their empathy into the fuming sea of wretchedness.

The entity tried to shield them, but they knew they must take on their share. This was their purpose. To feel and be felt. To carry and be carried. To love and be loved.

Once James acknowledged this purpose, he took the woman’s hand and they struggled together to arise.

Their eyes locked together and James gently tucked a strand of her thin brown hair behind her ear.

They took four steps closer to the entity.

Her hand,

if it could be called a hand,

was pressed against the window of the small round room.

James and the woman faced the window and attempted to see what the entity saw.

Hand-in-hand, it was possible to withstand the unremitting attacks of emotional turmoil.

James suspected it was time for him to die. He stared out into the blackness beyond the windowpane with a surprising lack of feeling, tightening his grip on the woman’s hand.

The woman smiled dejectedly and shook her head,

“She won’t let us off that easy.”

A sudden pain tore through his ribs. Light and noise exploded upon his helpless senses. He hunched over and vomited, unable to control himself as his vision blurred. The incomprehensible bouncing of his body against the ground knocked his eyes open. James smelled the familiar dirt of Washington’s streets mingled with the less familiar scents of blood and vomit. Men with wide, watery eyes spoke frantically above him. The vitriol spewing from outside the carriage sounded nothing short of a riot.

"My God, what is this?"

Four months into his presidency,

James Garfield had been shot.