I.

Silence. Elias Crawford sat in his office looking out the window. The rays of the setting sun poured in, illuminating the various physician’s instruments haphazardly strewn around the room. Dr. Crawford looked out at the streets of Red Creek, watching the townspeople pass by. No one had come today. Yet there they were, enjoying the day, passing back and forth, up and down the street in front of Dr. Crawford’s window. They didn’t look at him. Not even a “Hello, Doc!” from the children. Not today.

It must be about six o’clock. Dr. Crawford didn’t have a clock in his office. Time didn’t matter to him. Or, at least, it didn’t before. He always arrived at the office at around eight in the morning, he reckoned. Not that he needed to. Ten hours at the office and no one stopped in to say hello? Unusual. But understandable. The beginning of a pattern? Hopefully not. But probably so. Silence once again.

Michael had gone home early. Again, understandable. Michael was Dr. Crawford’s assistant, studying to become a doctor himself, someday. He was seventeen years old with blonde, curly hair and hazel eyes. He was 6’1”, a full six inches taller than Dr. Crawford, yet he still looked to Dr. Crawford as a father. Or perhaps a grandfather? At least, he had before.

Michael’s father had died when Michael was only eight years old. His mother fell ill shortly after, and Dr. Crawford was called to tend to her. During the time when Dr. Crawford cared for the poor woman, Michael became quite attached to him, admiring his wisdom and gentleness. After Michael’s mother regained her health, Michael began to go and see “Doc” every day. When Michael was thirteen, he began helping Dr. Crawford around the office, and from there became a medical assistant. Michael adored Dr. Crawford. He used to, anyway.

Michael used to arrive at the office before Dr. Crawford, eagerly waiting to start the day. He used to stay even after Crawford had gone home, remaining to clean up and get ready for the next day. Now Michael came at noon, and left about four. Last night, Josiah Fletcher fell from his horse. Michael was called to assist him; Dr. Crawford was not informed.

Doctor Crawford stood up, crossed to his desk, and extinguished the lamps. He was low on kerosene. He would need to get more before tomorrow; Christine was coming tomorrow. Dr. Crawford’s wrinkled face smiled with delight. Christine was his daughter. Dr. Crawford put on his overcoat, walked out of his office, and began the long walk home. Really, his house was only a few blocks away. But everything seems far away when one is alone.

He had walked slowly these last few days. Constance had scolded him for it. Constance was a woman who, at the urging of Michael, had been living with Dr. Crawford for the last few years to help around the house. She cooked, cleaned, and comforted, which was more than Dr. Crawford needed, but he appreciated it. She was a short woman, only about 5’2”, but she was not afraid to speak her mind. She was also the kindest woman one could have the pleasure of knowing. She was one of those wonderful individuals whose sole purpose is to care for others.

As he walked down the street to his house, Dr. Crawford looked and smiled at everyone he saw. They smiled back, but he saw the awkwardness in their smiles. Nothing is more telling than a forced smile. He also noticed the subtle change in direction that people made when they saw him; they couldn’t just avoid him, but they would put a few more feet of distance between them. Understandable. At last, Dr. Crawford reached his own doorstep. He opened the door, only to find Constance standing there, arms crossed, with an expression on her face that was part scowl, part smirk. “It’s about time you got here,” she scolded. “Dinner’s been ready for ten minutes.”

II.

Silence. Constance Mayfield sat at the dinner table across from Elias. She tried to make conversation; Elias stared gloomily at something far away, eating the potatoes that Constance had prepared. He ate with little energy. What could he be thinking about? Something important, or nothing at all.

Suddenly, he snapped out of his trance, his face brightened, and he exclaimed with the energy of a child, “Christine is coming tomorrow!” Constance fought back tears. “We must get her room ready,” said Elias. “I’ll go upstairs and make the bed!” He got up and walked to the stairs, which he ascended with renewed strength and excitement.

Constance sighed. He said the same thing every night. But Christine never came. Christine would never come. Christine had died thirty-four years ago at the age of six. Elias’s wife, Lillian, had died in childbirth, leaving Elias and Christine with only each other. Christine was Elias’s life, and Elias was Christine’s world. They used to play and sing, as Elias often told Constance. When Christine was six years old, she fell ill with the scarlet fever and never recovered. Neither did Elias.

Constance stood up and began to clear the table. She took the dishes out to the kitchen, then went back and extinguished the candles, moving the candlesticks to the mantle. She then sat down in a large chair by the fireplace, though there was no fire. No fire burning in the house any longer.

It had all begun a few weeks ago. The strange behavior, the odd phrases mixed in with the normal speech. Constance noticed it first, but the rest of the town quickly caught on. People whispered that Dr. Crawford was going mad, and perhaps he was. “Still no reason to whisper behind someone’s back,” Elias had said. Michael had taken it hardest. After spending so many years devoted to Elias, believing completely in his ability, suddenly realizing that the man he had so respected and cared for was losing his mind was too much for Michael. He began to distance himself from Dr. Crawford, as did the rest of the town. A few days ago, Constance and Elias had gone to the hospital in Omaha to see if anyone could identify the problem. The doctors told them that Elias had something called “rapidly progressive dementia”, a mentally degenerative condition that would progressively make it more and more difficult to think clearly and logically. Over the past few weeks, he had already gotten worse.

What had started off as simple errors characteristic of senility quickly progressed into more serious symptoms. Elias became increasingly confused, calling people by the wrong names, saying things that didn’t make sense. And now this business with Christine. He was losing a little more every day. He almost couldn’t be left alone for more than a few minutes. Constance remembered this, and went up the stairs to check on him.

Upstairs there were two rooms, one for Elias and one for Constance. Elias had set up Christine’s bed in his room several days ago, each day saying that Christine would come the next; he didn’t seem to remember all the times he had said that she would come, so he was never disappointed when she never came. He lived with the eternal hope that tomorrow would be better than today, never mind that tomorrow would never come. Constance found Elias crouched over the small bed that he had placed beside his own, gently making up the sheets and quilt for no one. “We need to make sure she’s warm,” Elias muttered. “The little ones get awfully cold at night.”

III.

Silence. Michael Roberts sat in his room looking out the window. The sun was beginning to peek up over the trees in the yard. He thought about Doc. He didn’t want to. It bothered him too much. But he did anyway.

He was angry with Doc. How could he let this happen? Shouldn’t a doctor of all people be able to prevent himself from getting sick? Of course, Michael didn’t have any legitimate reason for blaming Doc. But who else could he blame? Who can be blamed when something is no one’s fault?

Michael stood up and began to pace back and forth. He often paced when he was agitated. But what could he do? He was not a doctor, nor was there any miracle pill to bring back an old man’s sanity. There was, he realized, one thing that he could do for Doc. He could go down to the office and give him some company. Michael had noticed how the townspeople avoided him. Surely Doc could use a break from the isolation.

Michael got up and walked to the door. He stepped out of his house and started down the street; people smiled and waved when they saw him. He eventually reached Doc’s office—he hesitated before entering, then opened the door. Doc looked up at him. “Ah, Matthew, I was wondering when you’d get here,” he called. It took all of Michael’s strength to keep from running out the door.

“Doc, I came over to—”

“Be a good boy and hand me a rag so I can wipe my hands,” said Doc. His hands were clean.

“Doc, we need to talk,” said Michael, his composure slipping. Doc stared at him with a look of eagerness mixed with confusion. His most common expression, lately.

“Martin, it can wait until Mr. Darcey leaves.” Michael sighed. There was no one there. Mr. Darcey had come in two weeks ago with an infection, just a few days after Doc had returned from Omaha.

“Doc, I need to know that you’re alright—”

“I’m fine. Never better! Christine is coming to visit me tomorrow, I’ll—”

“Christine is dead, Doc!” Silence. A new expression crept across Doc’s face. The confusion remained, but the eagerness was replaced with pain.

“I…don’t understand,” Doc began. “Christine—”

“—died thirty-four years ago!” shouted Michael. This was the last straw. Someone had to snap him out of his twisted fantasy, and it might as well be Michael. “You may not know she’s dead, but she is! You say every day that Christine is coming, but she never comes! You don’t even have enough damned sense to see that you’re a madman! Going about spouting insanities about people that have been dead for years, frightening everyone around you! Even Constance only stays with you out of sympathy, and because everyone’s afraid that if you’re alone you might kill yourself!”

Doc staggered backwards, grabbing hold of the chair to keep from falling down. “I do-on’t understa-and,” he gasped. He tried to sit down, but missed and fell on the floor. Michael began to be frightened. He walked towards Doc to help him up, but Doc waved his hands with a terrified look in his eyes, still repeating cries of, “I don’t understand!” Doc struggled back onto his feet, hands still extended to keep Michael away. “I don’t understand!” Doc grabbed his coat and stumbled out the door into the sunlight.

IV.

Silence. The folks of Red Creek stared at Doctor Crawford, who was standing in the street, staring back at them with eyes that resembled those of a trapped animal. Or perhaps a frightened child? Yes, dear, I do think it looks more like that now that you mention it. The madman surveyed the crowd, tears in his eyes, and began to run down the street. He hasn’t run like that in ages. No, not since his daughter died. A strange fellow, to be sure. Better keep an eye on him. Rumor has it he’s gone off the deep end.

V.

Silence. Crippling, terrifying silence. Outside, of course. Inside there was noise. Deafening, disjointed, incoherent, cacophonous noise. Thought smashing against thought in an endless system of meaninglessness. One thought leading to another, barely related but somehow relevant, such is life.

The human mind is a prison. A well constructed prison, but a prison nonetheless. What a frightening thing, that the only two things in life that one cannot escape are death and one’s own mind. Which is the more frightening? The latter, naturally. Death is the end, or a new beginning. The mind goes on so long as one goes on living, ever there, subjecting one to the torment of one’s own existence. Sentience is agony. The mind is structured in such a way as to promote growth and self-preservation. But what happens when growth is destruction and self-preservation is suicide? Collapse.

Lo, the framework is undone! Away, ere darkness falls! Poor Crawford’s in deep now. Flee, flee, fearful friend, for friends fast flee the fool. Aye, but the fool oft sees and knows what the wise fear to learn. Aha, now we see the truth. Blest is the fool.

Wisdom is as wisdom does. Is that right? Perhaps, perhaps not. Wisdom seeks to gain in wisdom, but what good is wisdom when not applied wisely? And who can say what it is to be wise? In fact, what is wisdom? Knowledge? Not at all. If you add two and two, you will get four. That is not wisdom, it is fact. To believe that when you add two and two, the sum is greater than two and two together, such is wisdom. Or is that madness? Perhaps no difference. After all, what is a wise man but a madman with disciples?

Christine, Christine, Christine! Where is Christine? Does she still exist? In my memory, perhaps. Did she ever exist? Do I exist? I must, but what am I? A man? A body? A soul? A dream? If so, whose dream? My own? God’s? Christine’s? If a dream, then a sick, demented dream.

Noise, noise! So much noise! Thought is dead. Dead as Christine. Poor Papa. The river winds on. The song rings loud, but is unheard. All are deaf to its tones. Cross the bridge and you get to the far bank. Come and go as you please, but don’t stop in the middle, they tell us. One must have a destination. But what if that destination is not a place, but a state of mind? I can be on one side or the other, but only in the middle of the bridge can I look over and see the course of the river as it winds and flows beneath my feet. I can see where it has been, where it is at the present, and where it will be eventually. Suppose I just want to spend my time watching time go by? Such is the definition of peace.

Night falls. I wander the foothills alone, though never alone. Thoughts surround me like a cloud, never dispersing. What did I have for breakfast this morning? What will the weather be like tomorrow? Who cares? Who really cares? If it rains, my shoes may be wet. So what? We needn’t concern ourselves with trivialities. The darkness encroaches. Light fades, as it must inevitably. The candle burns dim, the moon wanes new, Crawford returns to night. Such is the way of things. Darkness. Silence.

VI.

Silence. Michael came as soon as he could, and was standing over the bed with Constance, looking down at Doc. Doc slept soundly now. He had come home in a terrible state of disorientation and delirium, spouting strange phrases that were either nonsense or brilliance. Constance had made him sit down, but he had continued in his fits for another hour or so. Finally, he had lay down, uttered one last “I don’t understand”, and fell asleep. Such was the condition when Michael entered the house.

Constance crossed her arms, stared at Michael and asked, in a rather condescending tone of voice, “Well?” So many things can be summed up in a single word. Michael looked at the floor, then looked at Constance, averted his eyes, looked at Doc, then looked back at Constance. Her eyes dug into him, nailing him to the spot, demanding an answer.

“I’m sorry, terribly sorry,” apologized Michael. “I lost control. I don’t know what came over me. That’s a lie; I know exactly what came over me. I was angry. Angry that the man I had so long admired and helped could forget my name. Angry that things would never be the same. Angry that I was losing the closest thing I have to a father to some mental disease that I can do nothing about.”

“Anger makes us do things we regret,” said Constance. “How do you think it’s been for me, living every day with his crazy outbursts every minute of the day, yet having to live with the memory of how he was before his illness? It’s been hell, Michael. But there’s one thing that keeps me hopeful through it all. I realize that Elias is happy. Happier than I will ever be.”

Michael looked at Doc. Yes, he realized it now. Despite his madness, despite his false reality, Doc was truly happy. In fact, he was the only person that Michael knew that could be said to be truly happy. In his madness he was innocent, hopeful, loving, excited, childish, yes, but a beautiful and honorable childish. Tears came to Michael’s eyes, and he managed to work up a “You’re right”. “It’s a shame, though that he constantly waits for Christine and she never comes,” said Michael.

“I’m not so sure she doesn’t,” said Constance with a smile. “When he wakes up in the morning, he gently pats the bed, kisses the pillow, smiles and says ‘She told me that she’ll come tomorrow.’ He doesn’t know the difference, but she comes to his dreams every night. They sit and talk, and they play and sing. I hear from my room. Elias talks in his sleep.” Michael smiled as he looked at the sleeping man. Constance pulled up the blankets over Doctor Crawford and the small bed made for Christine. “We need to make sure they’re warm,” Constance said. “The little ones get awfully cold at night.”