u/septuagint777

In my novel, the antagonist works as a handler for a delivery company (UPS, or a fictitious one). as a sidebar in the story, he and several employees have a theft ring there they unload certain electronic packages and avoid scanning on the inventory sheet, print out address that go to them or other friends address and then either keep the product or sell them to friends. it's in the story because my antagonist will go to jail for the theft, in addition to the assault he commits against the protagonist. I don't know much about delivery, but would this be plausible? Do I need to go into details about this since this isn't a major part of the story? Also, would there be way for my protagonist to figure out something and help turn him over to the police if they are investigating?

I know this i a lot, and forgive me if I'm asking stupid questions, I am doing research, but I thought I would also reach out to this reddit group as part of my research.

Thank you so much

Hey guys, I'm working on a thriller novel with Christian undertones. This is what I propose would go on the back of the book cover (the blurb)

Working title -- either "The Quench" or "Resonance"

Tonya Rhines is rebuilding her life as an MRI technologist in northern California. She’s growing in her Christian faith, finding solace in a support group, and making new friends at work. Things are going well.
But then came the fateful text on her phone one night: Derrick’s been released on parole. He’s been out for a few days now.
Surviving and escaping her ex’s horrid abuse from three years ago already infringed on Tonya’s mental peace. Now his threat –“I’ll kill you when I get out” – may become a terrifying reality. Derrick Jackson, full of rage and packing knives, has figured out where she works and plans to finish the job. But can she find courage from her faith to  fight back?

What do you guys think? Does it need work? Any advice?

I'm looking for a working title for a thriller novel I'm writing and also help with the novel's blurb (what I would write on the back of the boo cover). Here is what I have:

Tonya Rhines is rebuilding her life as an MRI technologist in northern California. She’s growing in her Christian faith, finding solace in a support group, and making new friends at work. Things are good.
But then came the fateful text on her phone one night: Derrick’s been released on parole. He’s been out for a few days now.
Surviving and escaping her ex’s horrid abuse from three years ago infringed on Tonya’s mental peace. Now his threat –“I’ll kill you when I get out” – may become a terrifying reality. Derrick Jackson, full of rage and packing knives, has figured out where she works and plans to finish the job. But can she draw courage from her faith to finally fight back?  

Possible titles I thought of are "Quench the Rage," or "Knives & Magnets," or "Poetic Irony" or "Magnetic Pull." What do you think? Are these cheesy? Does the blurb reveal too much or what should I work on?

Thank you so much for any input!

I have a male character in his early 40s who was going to die due to cirrhosis (he has two adult daughters, around 19 to 22 years old), and the cirrhosis is brought on by years of drinking. But in my research I'm reading that such a death wouldn't be until years later -- like maybe when he's in more advanced in age. Is it plausible to have him develop acute cirrhosis, or should I add another complication? I have it that he dies when one of his daughters (the protagonist) is around 21 years old.

Hey everyone. I am writing a novel (a long term project) where my main character is an MRI technologist, which also involve other characters involved in medical imaging, as well as mentioning or describing the environment (for instance character is working at an outpatient facility in California, that kind of thing). This isn't my field (I'm a personal trainer by trade), so I've been doing a lot of reading online materials, watching Youtube video and even joining other Reddit and Facebook groups related to radiology. If I have any other questions as I continue this project, would it be OK if I ask here? Or would this sub-reddit group allow for that?

I'm thinking of a short story or novella called "The Love of Man Has Grown Cold," which is loosely based on Matthew 24:12, which partially states "because of the increase in lawlessness, the love of many will grow cold." The concept I'm thinking of is illustration the increasing darkness in people's hearts growing like a virus (even in the church) but I want to avoid the whole "pandemic" "contagious disease" or "zombie" theme. Plus, I want to inject hope, a sort of warning that it can be stopped. what are some ways I could write this out without it requiring a lot research. What's a good allegory or metaphor?

By the way, I intend to do LOTS of RESARCH AND PLANNING FOR THIS STORY. I was just being silly and asking this off the top but I apologize for offending anyone on here and looking I was being lazy.

I had a blood clot in December 2024 (pulmonary embolism). A small one, but now I'm on blood thinners indefinitely, even though I am in personal training and work out a lot.

I wondered what caused my blood clot. I've had numerous tests, with some that indicate autoimmune pathology, while other test indicate normal levels, and therefore canceling out the chance of having certain disorders. Recently, I've been wondering if the blood clot I had may be related to the Pfizer covid vaccine and booster shot I took in 2021 and in 2022.

If it was an entire two years after receiving a vaccine/booster when I got the blood clot, could that still be connected? Or could it have been that I had covid and just didn't know it? Are there any studies out there indicating clots occurring long after receiving the vaccine? ( the only ones I've seen are ones where someone just had the vaccine recently)

So I am writing a novel...I expect to work on it long term, as I still need to do more research, write more scenes and smooth out the timeline:

Here is the working blurb for the novel:

An MRI technologist is rebuilding her life in northern California after leaving an abusive relationship with an ex-boyfriend three years ago, all with the help of her faith and a recovery/survivor's support group. But her ex, who was in jail, has been released from prison, and filled with rage, he intends on finding and killing her.....

Based on this blurb I was going to call this novel, "The Quench." (it has both metaphorical and literal meaning: metaphorical (i.e, quench his murderous rage, or quenching her life) and literal (shutting down an MRI in case of emergency requires a "quench" process). But someone said the word sounded "ugly" and it may not be attractive to readers. What are some other poignant titles I could go for that don't elude to much to the entire plotline?

It was just a month after Derrick had gotten arrested for the assault against her and the grand larceny against UPS. No broken bones but this time. Just scars from his strangulation, the shallow cuts from the knife and other private injuries. 
But they must have played a factor in the measly time he’d gotten. Too superficial. Not “serious” enough. “If he’d meant to hurt you, he’d have cut deeper.” 
Seriously? The justice department hinted at that. It was bad enough to get such speculation from Frances. The last thing she needed was judgy people. 
So at work, though she returned, Tonya avoided conversation, not wanting to get barraged with questions about why a hearing never materialized, even from well-meaning staff. Fran and her buddies still gave her the cold shoulder at times, but at least Karen gave her space, and Jonathan continued to keep it professional, allowing peer over DTI and FLAIR images of the day’s patient scans. She continued staying busy in the MRI suite during these final cross-training days, anything to avoid the thought of the attack, the arrest, and the plea bargain.
And Derrick’s threat.
Click-clack-clink-clank. Ca-ching-click-click. Ca-ching-click. The sounds of those stupid butterfly knife tricks he did grated her mind like scissors on a chalkboard. Metal clanging metal as he twirled the knife relentlessly, especially on that awful night in her apartment, invaded her psyche.
Ca-ching click-click. Schh-click. 
No. Stop. Don’t think about it. Look at the images.
Hmmm. This was an axial view of the patient’s brain. She could make out the white colors surrounding the….six years. He only got six years because sexual assault  had been taken off the table. OK focus. Oh, the sagittal view. Yes, it looked like a tumor in the frontal lobe, possibly just under the coronal suture of the skull…and he only got six years concurrent with the help of the grand theft charge. Wasn’t her life worth more than just money? After all the things he did? And what about his threat? No, focus….yes. She knew this next image here. A chemical shift artifact. A type 1, most likely.
Click-clack-clink-clank. Schhh-click. Schhh-click. 
I’m coming after you when I get out.
She shook her head, sweat beading from her forehead. No, focus!
This was another artifact. The patient must have moved during the scan.
I’m coming after you when I get out! Derrick screamed when they took him in handcuffs. 
Her heart pounded and she suddenly felt hot, almost like she’d spontaneously combust. Tonya jumped up from the computer monitor, pushing her African braids back, blood roaring in her ears. The balisong knives flipped in her head. Click-clack-clink-clank.  She felt like collapsing, but she studied herself against the wall, closing her eyes. Lord, please. Please help me, let it pass…please let this pass. I can’t. I’m terrified.
He’ll kill me if I stay here.
The roaring in her ears continued, blocking out all sound. She kept praying, eyes closed, but in her mind's eyes, focused.
“Please help, Lord,” she muttered out loud, under her breath. “Please.” 
A small voice. I’m here. 
And then the roaring began to decrease, somewhat, the knife-flipping began fading slowly, and her body cooled. She opened the door to the scanner room, took in a breath and let it out slowly, now listening to the sound of the rhythmic, chirp-whoosh-chirp-whoosh from the 1.5T GE scanner. It helped erase remnants of any knife-flipping sounds still rattling in her head, and the roaring in her ears had finally ceased. The Lord had calmed her down through this and now she listened fully to the scanner.  
No, wait, something was different.
The chip-whooh sound,  “like a bird,” according to some patients, became more crisp and rounded. It now resembled more of a  chirp-thump-chirp-thump-chirp-thump. Its rhythm kept tempo, smoothly, harmonically and in sync. Almost like….
….like a heartbeat. 
She could hear it. Just like what Jonathan had said before.  Unlike the sounds of Derrick’s grated knife-flipping, this was a metronome. 
Steady. 
Pulsing. 
Soothing. 
Calming.
It really was….a heartbeat. 
She stood there, her eyes still closed, and she listened to it beat. 
Then came another moment of clarity. 
He had said he’d find her. 
Then don’t be here when he gets out. 
She knew what to do. 
“How are those FLAIR images coming?” Tonya opened her eyes and turned to see Jonathan had walked back into the control room with coffee. When she didn’t answer immediately he asked, “What?”
“I hear it,” she said, closing the door. “The rhythm, the heartbeat, what you were talking about.”
Jonathan grinned. “See? I told you,” he said. “The scanner has life. More grounded?”
She paused and nodded, sitting down. “Yeah, more grounded.” 
“And?”
“I’m more confident about patient positioning now.” 
“I know, you’ve been passing the exams you’re able to take with the mending wrist,” he said. “I suspect you’ll ace the remaining exams in three or four months' time.”
“Yeah, I have more to go, but I’m ready,” she chuckled. “I’m taking additional online courses through ARRT for those 16 credits and I hope to take the MRI board exam in a few months also.” 
“You’ll do great here once you finish.”
“Thank you, Jonathan. Thank you for everything,” she smiled, but her eyes fell to the ground. “But… I won’t be working here,” she spoke sadly. “I want to, so badly, but for my safety, when I finish everything, I’m leaving the city.” 
Jonathan sat down scrunching his eyebrows.
“What? You never mentioned that before.”
“I know. But it just came to me what I need to do.”
He paused and nodded. “Clarity.”
“Yeah, clarity.”
“That’s too bad,” he looked up. “Where are you going to go?”
“I don’t know, but I hear MRI techs are in demand across the country.”
“You’ll do good. You learn quickly and knowing two modalities will serve you well,” he reached out and shook her hand. “While I understand,  I do hope you reconsider staying.” 
“I wish I could, but as long as he knows I’m here, I’m not safe.” 
Tonya shook away the memory. It had been a blur from there finishing her ARRT exam for MRI work, then certified in ARMRIT, then looking for work, learning of Lola’s property in San Jose that was up for rent. Landing the interview at Bayview, changing her contact info and deleting social media. Selling her car and getting another one. Arriving in San Jose with a key to Lola’s one-bedroom property and $80 to her name. It was worth it. All the things she learned at work, the friends she’d developed among her colleagues, her growth in her relationship with Christ, especially through the recovery group and now all of it could be taken away because Derrick was out.

I am new to this, so I hope I click on the right flair and don't get penalized.

I am a female (52) and I have been married to my husband for 17 years. While we have done things sexually, such as kissing and touching, we've actually never fully consummated the marriage. We have fun together, we've gone to marriage counselor on communication issues. We've tried to be more intimate, but especially lately, health issues have gotten in the way. We say we want more intimacy in our marriage, we pray for it, but it doesn't happen. It could be communication, it could be health issue, and even when things are perfect, we don't get to that point of full consummation. If I try to reach or touch him there's a barrier, like he's ticklish or pushes me away. Or say to each other, "let's just let it happen." or if I bring it up, there's the talk of "let's not pressure." We've been praying for more intimacy, but it hasn't happened, and I wonder sometimes if it was me, or maybe I'm not being sensitive enough. I didn't want to be attack or to have him attacked, but it has bothered me as I want to have more intimacy but I'm coming to realize that this may not be. So how do I live in a intimacy-less marriage? What do I do with those desires. As a Christian I won't step outside the vows of marriage and I won't engage in porn or anything (although, as a creative writer, I have written erotic scenes, even shared some of them with my husband, as a way of fantasizing what intimacy could be like). How do you cope with being in a sexless marriage and still find fulfillment but maintain your marriage vows? I'm curious.

The Claustrophobic Factor 

Arthur Cooke’s life took a dive after being stuck in an MRI machine for five hours. 
That’s why he held Tyler Barnes captive, trapping the young man in a crude, self-made, redwood six-by-four-foot coffin that he’d constructed in their Santa Cruz backyard – and all to teach Tyler a lesson. 
BANG! BANG! BANG!
“Please let me out!”  Tyler’s voice, thick and muffled.  “Please!” 
But Arthur didn’t move. He just sat on top of the coffin, counting the states and capitals. . 
Sacramento California, Albuquerque, New Mexico. Denver, Colorado, Austin, Texas….
Bang! Bang! “Help!” Tyler whimpered. 
“You think you can just come here after what you did?!” Arthur shouted back, although Tyler hadn’t come on his own volition. “You think you can convince me you weren’t at fault! That it was a mistake!” He hit the top of the coffin, counting to himself silently, Honolulu, Hawaii, Boise, Idaho….
“I’m not here for that. You’re right,  please let me—”
“Oh now you say you’re right!” Arthur stood up, pacing, while holding his left shoulder. It ached again, but then he’d pushed through it when he built the coffin over the last few months. He’d locked the coffin with a padlock he purchased at Home Depot so that Tyler wouldn’t escape. Now he circled the box in a jittery stride, listening to Tyler bang the top while he watched birds fly over him toward the sunset.  
BANG. BANG. “I can’t breathe…” Tyler’s muffled voice broke.
“That’s how I felt!” Arthur shouted furiously.  “Five hours! Five freakin’ hours in that tube! And you were gone! You left and didn’t do your job!”
“I….can’t breathe…” Tyler said again.
Technically, Arthur drilled holes around the sides of the coffin to allow for air, enough to allow Tyler to breathe and stay alive, though not comfortably. 
Because that’s how it felt for Arthur, you see, just inches from the bore’s ceiling inside the machine, the tube tight, the noise loud at times and mentally aware that Tyler seemed more preoccupied with that grey-suit man, and then his phone, earlier. He could barely see out of the tube in his supine position, except for a little corner of a wall across from the machine if he lowered his eyeballs down enough without moving. In that small sliver of vision he’d seen a plastic clock hanging on the wall, its second hands ticking away the time. 
And inside the bore the space seemed to grow smaller…and smaller…
Arthur grabbed his blond hair with his more mobile arm, pacing as the memory crawled through his brain. The world collapsed, the ground seemed to shrink. Count. One. Two. Three. Albany, New York. Atlanta Georgia. Salem, Oregon. 
“I was wrong…” a muffled voice spoke from the coffin. He turned, hearing the remorse in Tyler’s voice.
But it angered him more, if momentarily. He fell to his knees and banged the coffin. 
“Now you feel remorse! Now you feel remorse!” Arthur shouted, slamming his fists again and again. He stood back up and paced more. Revenge. Tyler made the  perfect mark because he couldn’t go after Gustavo Kant, that grey-suit man laughing with Tyler on that day. He owned the imagining clinic and pushed for profit at patients’ expense. PennMed had closed a couple of weeks ago, but Arthur read that Kant could just move his business to another state and opened a clinic there. The guy had too many lawyers and money to be touched. 
And Tyler. He never completed the scan and just left Arthur there. Oh sure, during the hearing, Tyler said something about Kant giving him the night off because another tech would “finish off the scan.” But someone marked Arthur’s visit as “complete,” and the tech left the facility.
All while Arthur remained in the scanner, the noise had stopped (except the machine’s humming) and the atmosphere of sudden stillness had settled over.
Oh, and Tyler’s quip: Let’s get this over with. 
Yes, this was vengeance because the world felt like it closed in the point where he nearly used a belt to end it, but Denise stopped him. This was retribution because…
…he was so angry 
“Vengeance is mine, I will repay,’  says the Lord,” flashed in his mind.  A verse from Romans. Yet he re-focused on the numbers. The counting. The States. Denise wouldn’t approve of this. She’d be mortified. Or maybe these days nothing shocked her anymore, considering the long nights he slept on the floor, measured the hallway with a ruler, and found himself going stiff, as if the walls closed in. He hadn’t been the easiest person to live with, yet she pulled off her blanket, put her arms around him and slept beside him anyway.
It hadn’t been enough for him to crave retribution though.
Tyler banged from inside once more. “Please, let me out!”
“Shut up!” Arthur roared as the backyard moved. Oh no. not again.
The space closed in. Always. Especially when he thought more of how he’d be wronged and Kant’s million-dollar slap on the wrist, despite the trial and others examples of negligence, including a possible death. About Tyler, who seemed to be chummy with Kant, laughing with him, when the tech assistant walked Arthur over to the MRI suite for his shoulder scan that day.  Several months of frozen shoulder irritability, something he still endured now, had brought him to the clinic that day. Now he looked at this young punk who probably thought he could just punch a few buttons. 
‘“I’m a bit claustrophobic,” Arthur had told Tyler that day, just before the scan. 
“You’ll be fine.” Tyler had told him dismissively.
During the hearing, Arthur learned there should have been more prodding. More questions. An offer of sedation. Double checking for metal. More attention to detail. More assurance and explaining the procedure. Not scrolling on his phone momentarily like Tyler did as he pulled up Arthur’s medical record at the time. 
“How long will it take?”
“No long, 20 maybe 30. Then we’re done for the day.” It was close to 5:30 p.m. “Let's get this over with.” 
Let’s get this over with.
That phrase pushed Arthur’s resolve to keep Tyler in the coffin, maybe even longer than five hours. Right now he could hear the guy coughing, followed by more whimpering. 
He listened to the whimper even as he counted the states. “Anchorage, Alaska. Tallahassee, Florida…” 
“...you’re counting…” Tyler muttered with a bitter sob. The kind of cry weighted with the reality of one’s sin. 
Arthur looked over at the coffin. No. He couldn’t be remorseful. No way. He checked his watch now. An hour had gone by since he’d pushed Tyler in the coffin. Just an hour. Slow. Just like that first hour when he watched, through his eye slits, the plastic clock’s slow-moving secondhand. Too scared to move, not sure if doing so would mess up the scan or somehow damage him. No sound from Tyler, not even when he squeezed the emergency ball. Just silence and humming, the world closing in. 
He stormed over and knelt by the coffin, slamming the stop with his hands despite the shoulder pain. “Jackson Mississippi, Little Rock, Arkansas…” wait. He sounded insane. Arthur gulped and focused on his plan. “Do you feel it now? Do you feel the walls closing in?” 
Tyler only responded with soft cries. But not directed toward Arthur. He sensed Tyler was lost in his own world now. Almost as he had been that night. Maybe he felt the same way.
But no. It shouldn’t happen this quickie. It had to be slow and painful.
Is it doing you any good?
“It has to,” he answered. “It has—”
“Arthur….” a woman’s voice called from inside their house. Denise. She hadn’t seen the coffin, though she had wondered about the hours he’d spent in the tool shed. “But your shoulder,” she’d say. He never told her, nor did he reveal his plan to track Tyler down through social media, to lure him back here on the pretense of talking and—
“Arthur, are you home?” 
The voice drew closer to the patio door. Arthur jumped up and scampered away from the coffin, reaching the door just as Denise approached it from inside. He slid it open, pushed himself through and shut it quickly, eliciting a surprise gasp from Denise as she stepped back.
“What are you—” she looked at him, noting the sweat beading from his forehead. “What’s wrong?”
He looked at her, not sure what lie to tell, shame washing over — 
“Do you feel like things are closing in again?” she asked, interrupting his thoughts.
He just stiffened and stared at the floor, as he’d done before.
“Come on, sit down,” she said, leading him to the couch. After his rope hanging attempt she’d been even more attentive. Good. This was a good distraction right now. Besides, Tyler had four more hours of punishment.  
“Remember what the therapist said,” Denise said now. “I’m here. God is here. You’re not disappearing.” He sat down now, his mind on the outside. He counted again, this time silently. 
He felt oddly nervous…
…about Tyler being out there in the box. Why? 
“Arthur, what are you thinking?”
He closed his eyes. One two three. What was the capital for Oklahoma? Oklahoma City. Arthur stiffened and stood up, walking into the kitchen. “Nothing,” he said. 
This was actually the first time he hadn’t scanned the perimeter or brought a measuring tape to make sure the kitchen hadn’t shrunken. Maybe his revenge was working. Or maybe he was stressing possible guilt.
No. Never. Arthur closed his eyes as his hands felt for the faucet. The sound of running water blurred out the counting, if only momentarily. 
He had no water to drink stuck in that tube, Arthur remembered.  He held his bathroom for so long and almost went right there when the night guard found him by some freak accident and pushed the motorized table button to let him out. The clinic had been closed down, darkened and empty. When the  guard finally escorted Arthur outside after he’d relieved himself in the bathroom, the guard had remarked, 
“Mr. Kant was just here. I’m surprised he didn’t know.” 
Arthur stared at the running water, then looked up at the kitchen blinds before closing them to block out the image of the coffin peaking from behind the hedges. 
He poured himself some water and sipped. The sink moved as it grew smaller. He placed the glass in the sink and brushed past Denise, who came in and said something that he hadn’t heard.
Now he entered the bathroom, which missed a door because he’d taken off the hinges. He stared at himself in the mirror. A blond-haired tall man stared back, eyes frizzed, hair messy. Face drawn of life. Eyes searching for peace from the counting. One. Two Three.
“Providence, Rhode Island, Columbus, Ohio—”
“Arthur, is there something you’d like to tell me?” Denise stood in the bathroom doorframe now, staring at him. He turned to her, his hands gripping the sink to calm his nerves.
“No,” he replied.
“Do you  feel like things are closing in again?” she asked for a second time, only now, it felt as if she were asking something else about something known, yet unspoken.
Wait. She may know.
“I’m fine,” he said.
She gazed at him, eyes searching. “Remember what the therapist said. I’m here. God is here,” she repeated.
“Leave me alone,” he snapped suddenly. “Please…”
She turned away. “I’m making dinner,” she called out as she walked away.
Arthur raised his hands, tapping them on the mirror. Tap. Tap. Tap. One. Two. Three. The mirror was still 26 inches by 15 inches. No growth.  He didn’t mean to treat her like this. He loved her. She just wouldn’t understand. Tap. Tap. Tap. The door frame moved, shifting. Threatening to buckle. Just the trapped feeling, not being able to move, desperately wanting to, the sensation of a knife plunging and turning in his stomach when he learned of Kant’s defense team claiming the clinic wasn’t responsible. That he could have left. But he was told not to move. He just obeyed orders. Then came news of another case. Then the audit. That lead to the hearing he testified in. But there had been no jail time, despite protests from MRSO and other clinical experts. Just monetary fines and the closing of PennMED. At least Tyler received major condemnation on social media after losing his job. But it wasn’t enough. He didn’t have to live with the nightmares, the wish for the counting would end. That’s what the rope was all about. And even after he’d been given medication and prayerful support, it wasn’t enough. Vengeance had to be the way, right? 
Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord. 
Arthur left the bathroom, walked past the kitchen, slipped through the glass door,  and stepped outside. The world spun momentarily. One. Two. Three.  Montgomery is the capital of Alabama. He opened his eyes, focusing on the shrinking path until he reached the coffin. Wind had begun to pick up, wrestling the trees and hedges surrounding their backyard. He stared down at the box, remembering something Tyler had said when he first came to the house. He never got around it as Arthur had attacked him then.  
“You said you wanted to ask me something,” he snapped at the coffin, kneeling down. “But before I let you ask me, I want to know….” he paused. “Was it worth it, getting to whatever felt more important than me that night?” He leaned in. “I remember you scrolling through your phone. Maybe your girlfriend sent you a stimulating image? Maybe you were going to hit the bar with your buddies?” He laughed as he tapped against the coffin’s top now. “‘Let’s get it over with.’ Those were your words.”
Momentary silence. 
“And here we are now. Was it worth it?”
A muffled, “No.” 
“No, I didn’t think so,” Arthur laughed, rather maniacally. “You just thought about getting lit, or getting laid, or just starting your weekend. You didn’t think about your jobs, or the other patient. You and Kant are alike. Losing your job wasn’t enough. Public shaming isn’t enough.” he leaned. “Is it tight enough for you? Is the world getting smaller for you? Do you feel yourself suffocating? Have you lost your sense of time yet? Cause that’s what it’s like for me..” 
He stood up now, waiting for vindication.
But he only felt hollow.
He blinked. Coldness gripped his arms and he shivered. No. This sensation didn’t match what he’d expected. He only felt like a robot. Automation. Loss of his soul. But not to the tapping or the counting the listing of state capitals, or the constant sensation of a shrinking world. Something else. 
Arthur closed his eyes to refocus, sitting on the coffin. It had been easier to restrain Tyler, easier than he thought, considering Tyler was 20 years younger. But maybe fury does that to you. He leaned over, pressing his ear to the coffin. The wind masked any subtle noises coming from inside for the most part, but if he listened hard enough, he could barely detect Tyler’s shallow, ragged breathing. For a second he wondered what the guy was thinking.
No. Proceed with the plan.
“Is your world smaller now?” he asked, more quiet.
No answer. Just subtle, somber, ragged breathing. Something about this pained him. 
This wasn’t right.
No. He had to do this. 
He closed his eyes. One. Two. Three.
“Tyler?”
No answer, the breathing, though ragged, carried with it an odd rhythm. Almost like the type of breathing of a coma patient. Or catatonic. 
Catatonic. What if—
“Arthur! It’s dinner time!” Denise called from the patio.
Oh shoot. Did she see him? He ducked lower, hoping the now-dark night obscured his shape and the coffin, or at least helped them blend in with the hedges.
“Arthur, where are you?” she asked. Through the leaves he watched her step outside. Please don’t come over here. Please don’t… 
…she stared ahead for a moment, and then she walked to the side of the house, disappearing behind the  wall. 
This allowed Arthur to jump up and move quickly, yet stiffly, to the patio.
She re-emerged, finding Arthur by the patio door.
‘Where were you?” she asked, her voice cold.
“I took a walk.” 
She studied him silently. Then her eyes panned to the backyard, before returning her gaze to him. His heart thudded, but he maintained a stoic look. Play it cool. 
“Dinner’s…ready…” she said. Motioning toward the inside. 
She had dinner laid out. Low-fat, lots of veggies. Denise was trying to lose some weight and had been on a health kick lately, dieting and exercising. She scooped up some spinach salad tossed with walnuts and pomegranate seeds, placing the food on the plate. He said nothing, just tried to focus on how colorful the food was, anything to avoid the moving table and the growing hollowness in his heart. 
What you’re doing isn’t right. 
He knew that voice. They were both devout Christians, so one couldn’t mistake it. Denise said grace and they began eating. She never took her eyes off him, and it made him feel uncomfortable. 
“Do you feel like things are closing in again?”
Why did she ask this again? Unless… 
No. She really asked something else, and he knew he couldn’t give her the answer. 
He could only stare, the bite of salad still in his mouth.
Denise put her fork down, swallowing her food and opening her mouth to say something. He anticipated the same line. Remember the therapist. God is here. I am here, that kind of thing. 
But Denise said, “When does someone who is hurt become the one who hurts?” 
Lightning bolt. He dropped his fork. “What?” 
She looked down, saying nothing more about it, but instead, “How’s the salad?”
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. 
She took another bite before she placed her own fork down. “I’m not feeling good. I think I need to use the restroom.”
Arthur sat there, stunned at her question. She stood up and left the table. 
When does someone who is hurt become the one who hurts?
No. 
He closed his eyes, the room spinning, the sensation of everything closing in, once more, as it had so many times before. But this time, it wasn’t the residual of being inside a medical tube for five hours. It was the result of something, the same thing that produced the hollow feeling inside. The same thing that made him nervous and sweaty. The same thing that –
Arthur stood up  quickly, heading outside once more, his heart thudding again. It was supposed to be smooth. Track him down, immobilize him, trap him in the box he’d built for five hours, make him feel the very things Arthur felt to add to the shame and criticism. 
But he felt….guilt. 
Guilt of what he was doing. 
And then, an epiphany. 
He had become like Kant. 
No…
The verses came to mind. “Repay no one evil for evil…Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine, I will repay,’ says the Lord. 
Goodness no. How was he any different from….?
He looked at his watch now. Two hours. It had been two hours.
He stood up, nearly knocking the chair over, and went outside, standing before the coffin once more.
He knelt down on the cold ground, leaning his ear to the wood. “Tyler?”
No answer. He leaned closer, straining his ears to hear.
“Tyler?”
No answer. No hint of ragged breath. 
Oh no. His heart thudded hard in his chest
He didn’t hear Tyler breathing.
Arthur stood up, his head throbbing suddenly, and the trees moving. The ground seemed to shrink again, but this time, from his guilt, from the possibility that he may have just —
—no, it couldn’t be. He just wanted someone to feel his pain! That’s it! Not become a…
Panic seized him and he scoured the coffin, eyes falling on the holes he’d drilled. They must have not been enough. Someone could still suffocate for real inside. He closed his eyes, a vision of him in handcuffs flashing. Denise crying. News playing. No. 
Lord, please, please, give me…give me—
Arthur suddenly spun around, darting for the small shed where he kept his tools, the same tools he used to build the thing. Now he frantically grabbed one, an ax or hammer, he wasn’t sure, so he could break off the lock.  He ran back to the coffin and began swinging, hard, until he felt and heard the padlock snap open. Yanking it off and tossing it aside, Arthur flipped the coffin open, straining his shoulder. 
Tyler lay in a fetal position, unmoving. 
Oh no.  No. No. No!
“Tyler, wake up!” he pleaded, voice cracking.
No response.
Arthur seized him by the shoulders, and with a grunt pulled his upper body up and over the rim of the coffin, his arms dangling over.
“Tyler please….” he implored, more to himself. “Wake up.”
His heart thudded, the color draining from his face. It was too late. I killed him. I actually killed someone, I actually –
Tyler groaned. 
The noise made Arthur release a sigh of relief, and collapsed to the ground, his legs shaking with relief and exhaustion. He closed his eyes as he heard Tyler moan again. The wind picked up briefly spewing leaves and across the coffin and the two men. Arthur opened his eyes, watching in his peripheral vision as Tyler slowly pulled himself out of the coffin before collapsing onto the ground beside it. The young man visibly shook and a faint, yet regret sob escaped his lips. 
Arthur never felt so relieved not to be a murderer. 
But he’d come close. He fully turned to him now, noting that Tyler sat, his feet drawn to his chest, as he trembled. He appeared smaller, terrified, a shell. In a way, Arthur accomplished what he wanted, but now that filled him with nausea instead of vindication. 
“I…..I….” Arthur began, but he didn’t know what to say. He sat, watching Tyler take in gasps as he shook. 
After a few minutes the trembling died down and now Tyler just sat there, eyes closed.
“You…said you wanted to ask me something…” Arthur began, his own voice sounding small now. “What…was it?”
For a moment, Tyler didn’t answer. Now he slowly turned his head to Arthur, eyes sullen, face crestfallen.  
“Forgiveness,” he muttered, as if it were a shameful thing. “I just wanted to…ask for forgiveness.” 
That did it. Arthur’s heart broke as he turned away and he broke down into silent sobs. This whole thing had brought him to this, and he had become something horrible. Now he understood what Denise meant.  Now he understood what the verse meant.
He turned and reached for Tyler, who trembled and shrank away.  Understandable.
And then he noted something. He wasn’t counting. Neither numbers nor state capitals.
He wasn’t seeing moving shapes or shrinking images. Just a moment of clarity that vengeance didn’t help after all.
“Uh..” he cleared his throat. “I…maybe…it would be good…if you came inside…it’s cold.”
Tyler looked at him, eyes wide and skeptical.
“Please,” he whispered.
The young man nodded slowly, uncovered himself and made a move to stand, though his legs proved to be wobbly. So Arthur helped him to his feet, and they both stepped away from the very coffin Arthur had built to trap him. And it was enough  to stop it. This whole thing was a mess, but the insanity had to stop somewhere, for the first time the angst Arthur felt subsided. The world stopped shrinking. At least for the time being. Now he supported Tyler as the two men walked to the house where Denise, who’d known all along, stood by an opened patio door, waiting for them.