“We have a visitor, Dad.” Kristy leaned back against the open door to let Buffy in.
The room was empty except for a scattering of art supplies, an unmade bed, and a commode in need of emptying. Her stomach flip-flopped from the stench of stale cigarettes, piss, and sweat. Movement from the opposite side of the room caught her attention. It was Gil. Fisting a black marker, he scribbled feverishly on the wallpaper blotting out clusters of forget-me-nots. He didn’t acknowledge either of them.
“Just talk. You can go near him, but whatever you do, don’t touch him. He gets really upset.” Kristy sent a sad smile in the direction of her dad before closing the door behind her.
Walking slowly around the room, Buffy took in Gil’s meticulous artwork. Nude men and women surrounded and decorated the bedroom door. A life-sized lion, wolf, and leopard each fiercely guarded a wall. “Invictus”[i] was scrawled in the empty spaces in between. She tried wrapping her head around the enormity of it all.
“I’ve been waiting for you.” Gil stopped, cocking his head to the left before resuming his work.
“Have you?” Though stunned, Buffy kept calm. Wanting to avoid interruption, she turned down the volume on the baby monitor perched on the window sill.
“Of course. That’s my job. But you’ve started without me, haven’t you?” Gil scribbled faster, never taking his eyes off the wall.
“Yes, I have,” She agreed, not knowing why or to what exactly.
“Tsk, tsk.” Gil shook his head.
“What are you drawing, Gil?” Buffy stepped closer yet kept some distance.
“You have so much farther to go.”
“To where?” She took another step closer. He was shaking.
“The true face of evil.” His hand stopped and dropped loosely by his side.
“Is that what you saw in LA?”
Gil wouldn’t respond, tears sliding down his stubbled cheek. He resumed drawing in slow, steady sweeps. Stuffing her hands into her pockets, Buffy moved even closer in order to get a better look.
Varying in size, every person was drawn with painstaking detail. One in particular grabbed her attention. He was by far larger and placed away from the others. His features were distinct and eerily familiar. Impossible.
“Gil, do you know William F. Allen?” Her voice pitched, catching in her throat. All her earlier confidence was gone.
For the first time Gil looked at her, snickering. “Do you?”
“Who is he? What does he have to do with this? What is this?” Letting her panic take hold, Buffy roughly grabbed Gil.
He wrenched his arm free. Eyes wide and terrified, he hit the wall hard and slid into corner. Cowering and rocking, he covered his ears with ink-stained hands. Then he started screaming over and over:
“I am the master of my fate. I am the captain of my soul!”
“What the hell is going on in here?” Kristy rushed into the room, heading straight for her dad. Her face twisted in anger. “I don’t give a fuck who you are or why you’re here, just get the hell outta my house! Now!”
Buffy tried to apologize, but Kristy wanted no part of it. She was kneeling in front of her dad, murmuring consoling words. They weren’t working. Buffy could still hear Gil’s gut-wrenching screams up until she slammed her car door shut and drove away.
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[i]“Invictus” by poet William Ernest Henley (1849–1903)
“Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.”