CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Destroyed

Paul knew what would happen. And he was right.

Clara went back to her husband and they moved to the city of Sheffield. He never saw her again. Walter Morel was slowly falling apart. He tried to carry on with life as if nothing had happened, but all the light in his eyes had gone. Neither the father nor the son could stand living in the house, now that she was gone. So Paul moved to Nottingham and Morel moved in with a friendly family in town.

Nothing seemed to have any meaning for Paul. Life was empty. He started drinking heavily. After work he would go to a bar and drink until he could drink no more. He got into fights and would often arrive at work with black eyes. He stopped painting and could not imagine a time when he would start again.

The weeks passed, and he was becoming more and more hopeless. He was always alone.

One night he came home to his dirty little apartment and thought of killing himself. He sat on the bed thinking of the reasons why he shouldn't, and then a voice in his head told him:

"Because of her."

He sat up and realized that he was doing the exact opposite of what his mother would want him to do. He told himself: "She's dead, but what did her life mean?"

"I'm alive,"

"She's not."

"But, she is still inside me."

"I have to stay alive for her."

More time passed.

He sometimes thought that he should go to Miriam and ask her to marry him. Then his mother would live on through their children, but he knew that was the wrong thing to do. If he married her, he would be killing that part of himself that was different and special. He realized that it was not for him, the life of ordinary men. His happiness was not to be found in a wife, a home, and children. If he was to ever be happy it was to be through his art.

He felt sad that he was to be forever separate from other people. But it was that separateness that would give him the chance to see life. An artist needed to step away from life, so he could see it clearly.

He decided to leave Nottingham and the county. He would travel the world to experience how all the people of the world lived. His life would take him to strange places but he felt strong because now he knew what he had to do.

On the day he was to leave, he returned to the old house. He stood in the garden and remembered all the years of his youth. He cried, but these were not sad tears, they were tears of thanks. They were tears for all the happiness, sorrow, fear, joy, and magic of life. He would spend the rest of his life trying to capture those feelings in his art.

The last thing he did before he left was to visit his mother's grave. He placed a bunch of flowers on the ground and said quietly:

"Thank you."

(end of section)