It made him frustrated, sure, but it also made him mad as hell. He was mad at nature for creating pointless diseases that ruined and took lives. He’d been so mad at God, he hadn’t been in a church for almost ten years. He used to go every Sunday, even though Kate thought it was silly. Church gave him comfort, made him feel whole.

He realized it was all bullshit. There was no silver lining to Kate’s struggles. This was not making her a better person, or them a stronger, more enlightened couple. They were tired and ground to dust on their best days. How the fuck could that be the plan of a Creator they were supposed to look at as their father?

Maybe God was an abusive addict, like so many dads he’d come across. That would explain a hell of a lot.

So yes, Andrew was angry, and he’d argue his right to be so with anyone.

And some days, like today, even if he didn’t want to face it, he was angry at Kate. With Kate. For Kate.

She could have woken up for dinner, bro. Face it, she’s addicted to misery. You showed her a good time, and she went back to her addiction. That’s what you get for trying.

“Fuck…you!”

Speaking of addiction, you and she both know those pills got her, man. They got her in that death grip.

“If she didn’t have them…she’d be out of her mind with pain.”

That’s what she keeps telling you. The least she could have done was skipped one or two last night so she’d be up with you.

“I said shut the fuck up.”

He spit into the dark woods, over and over, as if banishing the forbidden thoughts into the pitch.

Andrew turned when he hit the access road and headed back toward the house, running harder, faster, breath exploding from his lungs in short, hot bursts.

He could stop and take his aggressions out on a tree. Maybe find a branch and whip the holy hell out of the elm by the car. Not that the tree deserved such abuse, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t feel a thing.

And if it was true that all of nature was an extension of God, all the better.

Better take one to my head, he thought. Maybe if I hit myself hard enough, that’ll make it stop for good.

Or maybe the streak of Catholicism in him wasn’t quite as dead as he’d thought, seeking penance for his sinful introspection. Would flagellation be the same if his flesh didn’t feel the bite of the branch?

He sprinted up and down the drive two more times, the voice in his head chattering nonstop, making him angrier.