Free The Architect of Revenge: A September 11th Novel by T. Ainsworth

stood. At least when he was at the hospital he was protected from his home’s empty stillness.
    He hung the coat on a hook and traced the final gray light of the day to a table and a neat stack of mail. Arranged by Henrietta, he knew the small pile contained the usual bills but no condolence cards. They had stopped coming weeks ago. There was little more anyone could say.
    Morgan walked to the kitchen sink, turned on the water, and wet his throat. Only then did he see that Henrietta had placed the damp newspaper near the drain so it wouldn’t water-spot any wood. He didn’t care what happened to the wood—or the paper. It would never be read. The news was the same every day, more testimony to the cruel reality no one could believe.
    From their last bottle of Macallan, Morgan poured a few ounces into one of the snifters Caroline had given him. Sitting down on the sofa, he watched the curtains of scotch stream to the bottom of the glass before tentatively taking a sip.
    “See, darling,” Cay had said. “Daddy taught me that fine crystal makes Scotch taste even more delicious.” When Morgan filled his mouth with more, she removed a drop from his lips, tasting it with her finger. Tempting him to transgress, she whispered, “You stay right here.”
    Morgan’s gaze held firm on the cold hearth. Its flames had cast their passionate shadows everywhere the first time they made love. He relived again Caroline standing in front of the prurient blaze, her hair decanting over the back of a white gossamer caftan that poured to the floor. With her face in smoldering repose, she placed her Scotch on the mantle, glanced his way while drawing the silk robe behind her buttocks to reveal fine lace underwear—all which remained between them. One of her long legs nudged forward.
    “I’m really not this way,” she said, submitting her open hand to him in anxious anticipation. “I hope you’re not disappointed.”
    Morgan reflexively took a large swallow of the Scotch. A wave of nausea slammed him and he retched hard. Racing toward the sink, he vomited on the floor.
    “You motherfucker!” Morgan burbled through the detritus. “Goddamn you!”
    He spit out more globs while he turned on the faucet and stuck his head in the water.
    He sneezed.
    Using a finger to clean out his nose, he reached for a paper towel to dry his face.
    “Goddamn you…” he said, pulling off his shirt, using it to wipe up the vomit on the floor. The balled-up cloth went into the garbage.
    Morgan found the snifter miraculously upright and unbroken. Holding the glass at arm’s length he walked to the sink to dump the liquid, and backed away to his bathroom.
    He stripped off the rest of his clothes.
    “You look like shit!” he grunted to the person in the mirror.
    His wilted skin showed every rib. Even though he hadn’t exercised since September, he’d still lost fifteen pounds. He needed a real haircut. With a chimpanzee grin he picked uselessly at his teeth before looking at his retracted, lifeless penis.
    “Fuck me,” he said with contempt. “You’re pathetic. Throwing a rock at your TV? Is that all you can do?”
    The video released by the Pentagon several days before showed a smiling Osama bin Laden stating how pleased he was that the Towers collapsed completely. Morgan erupted when he heard that and threw the marble paperweight on his desk at the television. The large LCD screen popped, sparked, and went dark. Since then the broken glass and polished green stone, given to him by Ross Merrimac with the engraved date of his first transplant, remained untouched on the hardwood floor.
    He turned on the shower, hoping hot water and steam would help him concentrate on anything that might cloak his misery. He thought about an operation he performed the week before, one that changed the destiny of a child clinging to life. His OR team applauded him—said he’d done a stellar job—but he just shrugged off their accolades and walked away. His craft