What the Bread Was For

For four years he had lived inside a story, and the story, however painful, had at least made him innocent.

Marlowe had betrayed him.

Marlowe had robbed him.

Marlowe had run off with a rich man and left him broken.

He had suffered inside that story, but it was a clean suffering, the suffering of a wronged man, and it had let him drink and grieve and blame without ever having to look at himself.

Now the story was gone, and in its place was the truth, and the truth had no comfort in it anywhere.