He compared. He compared the feelings he had towards his father to the ones he was now embracing. He lied in his sorrows with his young father in mind–the hell he lived. The magnitude of the devastation.
Apprehensive, he rose. Mike had a seat on the end of the sofa. He was crazed. The dreams, the messengers, the messages–all of it was too much. He was not the man he had been before Mr. McBride came in, and he regretted answering the knock. Disruption was now the topic. He sank himself low within his seat and stared at the ceiling. The old, yellowed tiles. “The stains from years of concealment. Each one of them could tell a story.” He was trying to distract himself from the reality of all that had transpired. The distractions only led to introspect, as he began to see himself for the first time in a long time…
“Who am I? What have I done? What did I do to deserve this, GOD? You send all of these strange visions–hallucinations, illusions–and expect me to understand?”
He shifted in and out of his emotional ferment, questioning his mental stability. Questioning God, heaven, hell, and the content of his inherited quandary.
The day was cloudy, providing a darkened dungeon for him to sulk in. He was avoiding his mother as she was moving around upstairs getting ready for work, hoping she would just go.