Chewing on chapped lips. Hair wet from sweat. Pillow soaked.  The bathroom light is on.

A ceiling fan turns slowly. Burned out light bulbs dangle from it. Water damage in the kitchen walls. Big brown spots. Rain begins to pour. 

He sits drinking coffee at four in the morning. Reading The Brothers Karamazov. He uses a small flashlight to see the words. The book lies on a table as he turns pages about an unworthy father and his four sons written by Dostoyevsky years ago when literature mattered. He strokes his chin and places a prayer card between the pages to mark his spot, closes the book, and breathes heavily.

Am I a fool? he asks himself. I can not let go. I just can’t stomach it, he says. One day, I will. One day. Or, will I continue being this way. A sad man. A clown. Who knows? All I can do is wait for the end, he continues. Wait for the end.

Rain seeps through the bottom of the door. For a while, he used to put towels down to mop up water. Now, it just gathers, warping the wooden floors, discoloring them. There is no sense in cleaning up, he says. It’s all falling apart. Too much for one man to handle. This house has become a shack, he cries.

He opens Dostoyevsky once again and shines the light on the words.  The Russians understood, he says. The Russians got it.