_ _= Italics

Ben followed the fine line of a crack in the institutional green plaster above the gray metal file cabinet. The line meandered down the wall like a rural highway on a map snaking and curving through unseen lands, climbing over ridges, rushing down valleys, past farms and small towns, rivaling beside train tracks, over bridges and through tunnels before intersecting with a series of circular cracks as though beltways surrounding a city. A black triangular hole sat at their center, as if something had been thrown or struck there. Busted lath slats projected from its sides like broken ribs coated in crumbling grey plaster flesh.

Some fragment of Ben’s attention knew she was talking again. She was pleading her case, again. She was telling the therapist what an abusive, alcoholic, asshole he was-again.

Ben stared into the depth of death in the center of that triangular black hole and imagined her face bloodied and bruised, her now quiet mouth contorted in some silent cry.

_Just_wait_, Ben Thought. _Just_wait_.

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