THIS IS NO LABRYNTH OF MERCY

Creating himself on the canvas of her mind, the picture of himself he wished were true. It doesn't help, Michael. it just hurts more. Darkness coiled between what he wanted them to believe and the self he despised. It only made him more alone. How could you save someone when he didn't let you know him? Not really, not all the way. But Josie knew about that. The glamorous model, the silver lily. She'd been the same kind of liar.

and his journal, the last journal he ever wrote, she found his writing:

there was her name. JosiejosieJosie. Written in chains, in suns of josies. Her face, over and over again, he could do it from memory.

'Don't leave me. Im such a piece of shit. I disgust myself. How can she still be in love with me? she should leave. I would if I were her. Everything I touch turns to shit. Her love just makes it worse.'

She shivered, she couldn't stop, it was so cold in here. Her love made it worse. How could that be? she couldn't understand, why was she so stupid, she read it over and over again but she stil couldn't take it in. She hit her forhead with her fists, trying to wake her brain up, trying to force this into her head, how such a thing could be.

'I don't know how. I don't know the first fucking thing about life. I wish she wouldn't look at me like that, for christs sake. Like I had crushed her last dream. What does she think I am, Jesus? IM NOTHING. I HAVE NOTHING. STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT. STOP LOVING ME LIKE THIS. I CANT BEAR IT.
Josiejosiejosie youre all ive ever had. Every scrap of joy. Don't leave me, please God, please, please God.'

She read that part over and over. He had loved her, but he hated himself more.
such suffering, so much pain. And he thought it made him hateful, as if suffering were shameful, disgusting. As if pain were a crime. Why didn't he tell her? She could have helped him if only he let her. she could have done something. But it wasn't what he wanted, how hard he pushed her away. And then wrote "don't leave me, please god, youre all I have."

he loved her, he had. And he knew she loved him, he knew it! but it wasn't enough. She couldn't have imagined such a thing was possible. Love wasn't enough. He loved her, and she loved him, and it wasn't enough. She struggled to understand how that could be possible. Love, it seemed, wasn't as big as she'd thought. There were bigger things. She felt her heart being crushed, it was going to pop like a grape. But she closed the door and sat back down at the table. The black book had not finished unfolding its black tale. Undearneath he had written "Who can judge another mans suffering?" But she could never know what he suffered, there under the palace. Even if he had told her everything, could she have known, understood, the depths of his despair? and what if she had? in the end, she couldn't go there with him. She couldn't follow him the rest of the wy. she tried to remind him about life, and a way out, handed him the end of the string, but hed only backed deeper into the labrynith.

WHO CAN JUDGE ANOTHER MANS SUFFERING?

was this before or after the dog? there were no dates anywhere. It wasn't merediths chronicle of her historical life. What went on inside had no time. Did it matter if it was before or after the dog? it wasn't about what she did or what she said or hadn't done or hadn't said. She'd been cruel but he knew why, that she loved him, that she wanted him. The dog day had been one more cruel thing, but not the darkness itself.

MING MEANT DESTINY BUT ALSO DEATH WHAT WAS IT DOING THERE ALONE WITH PEACE AND VIRTUE?

But she didn't believe in destiny. SHe refused to believe. Even if the game was rigged and the house always won, you could still go on playing, even as you lost. Who can judge? She turned the page and there it was. The mad monk. Wrapped in his black cloak, gaunt, hungry, smoldering with fury- underneath Michael had written,
 I ACCEPT YOU DEMON.

She stared into the wretched eyes of the demon. how she hated that thing. she could taste the murky water of the baptismal all  over again. His demon? HIS? shed always thought the monk was accusing HER, punshighing her. Her body felt pierced, like the chest os of Indians who flew on windmills, hanging from books through their flesh. He was depicting his own madness, the thing that tormented him, accused him. But of what, Michael? you didn't do anything wrong. It wasn't the dog, it wasn't even saint tropez. But what? She stared at the large crazy eyes of the monk his bony body in its crow black robes like the wings of a dirty bird.

more writing....

WHERES THE GODDAM ROSE GARDEN? WHERE IS IT??

it was a poem too.

Down the passage which I did not take towards the door we never opened in the rose garden.

That was all he wanted. Simple happiness. But the mad monk tortured him because he wanted. The monk despised it, mocked it. He couldn't let him believe it was possible. That was the thing stopping him, that mocking evil thing that had his own face.

She covered her eyes with the heels of her hands. The anguish of missing him, all these days since the cops called, since seeing him in the morgue, like a giant wooden mannequin, With his poor battered face. That fucking crow bodied thing had won. How gleeful it was now. All because he'd wanted to live, forget genius and destiny, and simply be happy. But it wouldn't let him.

It had all come to this, like poisoned bread squashed to the size of a pill. Death, like a lover, caressing him, promising him peace, running its fingers through his hair, its tongue in his ear.

'They have ladders that will reach further but no one will climb them'

I would have Michael.
But maybe she wouldn't have. Maybe she would have had to stop somewhere, unless shed wanted to follow him into the night. She didn't know what she believed. In any case, he didn't want her to save him He had retreated into his labyrinth, out of reach.

The ant powder was making her dizzy, the stink of fear and his despair under the sweet poison.

She lay down on the bed, on his side. But as soon as she did she knew he would have taken the other side, her side, a last shred of comfort, like the dog curled up by the patio wall. She moved onto the right side. She sat in the bed, arranged the pillows behind her. He'd poured himself a last shot of mescal.

'i'm sorry. I just want to stop now.'

and put the gun in his mouth, sour, cold, smoky.

She put her fingers in her mouth.
IM SO SORRY.
and pulled the trigger.