FicWad

Some get by on faith alone. Others survive on charity. The government aids some. Still others work multiple jobs. Some can feed a family on a few copper coins. Others could not manage with less than their weight in gold. Some deal with misfortune by talking to others. Some deal with it by looking deeper into themselves through prayer and meditation. Some write their troubles for all the world to see. Others keep private diaries. Some deal with stress through exercise. Others relieve their stress through intimate activities. Some overeat. Others starve themselves. Some people indulge themselves. Others deny themselves pleasure until they can work through hardship. Some people turn their anger upon others and become violent. Others recede within themselves and become catatonic. For some people, however, substances provide the only answer. One such man is Jack Shepherd. He died trying to drown his problems with alcohol. After he died, to nobody’s surprise, he went to Hell.

In a century and a half, he has been in prison seven times. He has killed many men on the battlefields of two wars, and he made his name and fortune in the business of depriving mothers of their sons, wives of their husbands, and children of their fathers. He has an adult son and two young children, and the previous eighteen months have been very hard for him. First, his wife left. Then, their second son was born. A war broke erupted on the day that he remarried. His new wife is far more easygoing than his last, and she loves his children as if they were her own, but he hardly sees his young sons because he is often on the front lines of a futile war that will soon call for a draft, and his ex-wife enrolled their older son in boarding school in order to prevent Jack having regular contact with the boy, lest he leave a lasting impression. Jack was ambushed twice by assassins. One left him with five bullet wounds, four in his chest, one in his throat. The other left him physically torn with a severe bite in his side. It is not the scars that bother him. He bears his scars proudly except for the one that his dear friend gave to him when he proposed that she choose him over her husband and the one on his jaw from the assassin that his wife has yet to see. He spent much of the spring in bed unable to visit the elder of his two young sons for fear of his own health or have any contact with the younger of them, lest the infant should catch the dreaded disease. For so long, he yearned to stretch his legs while he was bedridden, then housebound. He wanted nothing more than to travel to the Senate or to the front lines. Even a trip to his one of his friends’ pubs would have been a welcomed diversion from the painful illness. Instead, he came out of it with an opium addiction from the treatments given to him for the pain and restlessness caused by Lycanthropy. He was already a heavy drinker and chain smoker of cigars. His addictions resulted in a rather unpleasant incident with his dearest friend that he would rather not think about at all if he can avoid doing so, with which the opium provides excellent help.

Jack has money. He has plenty of it, in fact. He hates to act like this is true, but it is. Most of his wealth comes from war profiteering, professional soldiering, and money lending. He does not see money lending as a sin because it must surely be the least of his sins, considering the number of men he has killed, the amount of alcohol he has ingested, the number of women with whom he has shared his bed, the multiplicity of curses and blasphemies that he has rained down on the heads of others, and the magnitude of the lies he has told, among other sins. He is a bastard. He will never be allowed to forget it, just as he was never baptized because of it. It is his shame. He never knew that he had a bastard son until after they both died, but his son forgave him for having unknowingly abandoned the unborn child. He will never be able to do the same for his own father. His father knew well that he was soon to be born and received absolution for the adultery that caused his conception. Jack was stigmatized since birth, and those stigmas made him the man he became. He is not exceptionally bloodthirsty. He merely has a healthy sense of justice and revenge. Occasionally, he loses his temper, and someone suffers greatly as a result, but that tends to only happen in drunken rows late at night in pubs when he is drinking alone and on the battlefield. He does not torture. He lacks the imagination. He merely threatens, and his reputation as a cold-blooded killer precedes him, so confessions are easily obtained.

His family is unconventional, even for Hell, whose royal family is directly descended from its greatest enemies. Jack was adopted by his uncle and aunt when he was very small. His mother could not care for him, so she left him with his father. His father’s wife was not pleased, so, to save the boy’s life, he gave him to his brother, who was newly married, to raise. Jack’s aunt and uncle treated him like one of their own children. They had four. Their eldest son, Shane, was bitten by a wolf and became a Werewolf. The twins, Sean and Seamus, died in an accident when they were very young, and they became Banshees in death. Jack made a pact with a Demon in order to prevent damnation because of his illegitimacy and became a Vampire. The only daughter, Shannon, had a natural talent for healing and midwifery, indicative of true witchcraft. She could have gone to Heaven to be with her devout parents, but all of her brothers and her much-loved cousin were damned, so she faithfully remained with her siblings, a choice she regrets occasionally. Jack married a half-Banshee half-Vampire with whom he has two sons. When their marriage ended, he married a half-Banshee half-Demon. Neither of the twins nor Shane has married since they have been in Hell. Shannon has a daughter named Siobhan, who is illegitimate due to a row between Jack and the girl’s father before she was born. Jack’s sister will probably never forgive him for what he did to the father of his niece, but he is the pater familias. He can do as he pleases without threat of retaliation within his family. He tries not to abuse that power. Once in a while, though, he exercises it more than his strong-willed siblings wish him to, causing familial unrest. This has not made such a decision in nearly fifty years.

Jack wonders how he arrived where he is. He wonders if his horse is outside in the cold or if he ought to call a carriage. He wonders if his brother or one of his generals will arrive to bring him home. He cannot remember. He wonders where he is. All he knows is that it feels wonderful when he is smoking opium. The sickeningly sweet smoke of the drug hangs heavily in the air of the dimly-lit room. Around him, men of all backgrounds recline in varying states of ecstasy, confusion, and misery. He lights a cigar, its acrid smoke contrasting sharply with the fragrant perfume pervading the minds of his neighbors. He has already taken his opium for the time being. He now smokes his cigar and drinks bottle after bottle of whiskey. Nobody here knows him. Nobody he knows could find him here. He is alone, and he wishes to remain alone. The only person who understands him is surely miles away being degraded by her husband. Her husband gets his way regardless of what anyone says because he is the crowned prince and heir of Hell and its throne.

The door opens slowly and carefully, so as not to disturb those inside. The figure in the doorway takes a form unfamiliar to many of the men lounging inside the miserable shack. Everything about the newcomer shows that she is in control except for the bruise on her back that they cannot see, as it is hidden under her dress and shawl. She is very short of stature and waiflike, excepting her feminine features, notably, her prominent chest and hips. Even an old friend who is so intoxicated by the opium that he cannot find his own feet cannot help but notice her presence. She is his savior, as he sees it. She brought him to Hell. She helped him earn his money. She fixes his mistakes. She cleans his messes. She is Kerrigan Sheehan, and she currently seems displeased. She draws her shawl closer around her shoulders and looks from face to face, not tall enough to mind the low ceiling and seemingly unaffected by the smoke. She can smell a familiar and discordant scent wafting from the far corner of the room, and she follows it directly to Jack.

“Jack, you must return home. Your wife is waiting for you.”

“Jaysus, no!”

“Come with me. Can you walk?”

“I’ve no idea what happened to me feet.”

“Lean on me for support. Mind the low ceiling. Do not hit your head. I have a coach outside.”

“An’ for all me sins ‘gainst ye, ye come an’ find me anyhow an’ bring me home.”

“This is an act of concern, Jack. You are a dear friend of mine, however I came for the sake of your wife.”

“Ye’re an opium dream. Ye’re not real.”

“I am real, and I am here. Take my hand, and come with me. Lynn sits at home worrying about you. She waits every night for you to come to dinner. She sits awake all night embroidering or knitting to keep herself from wringing her hands while she waits for you to come home and come to bed. Your sister will be coming to visit you shortly, and your brother can take no more hardship. Come along, Jack. If you will not come for yourself, come for your wife, for your brother Shane, or for Jason, who at your house as we speak asking for you many times each day. Come for me. I need to speak with you soon. I have most distressing news, of which you must be informed. Come for your men. They need their leader. Come for yourself. We all miss you, but you will die if you stay here, and we will miss you yet more. Please, Jack, come with me.”

Jack grasps her hand with a grip like an iron vice, causing her to smile slightly. She pulls him off of his cot and onto his feet, carrying as much of his weight as she can. They walk outside into the cold, clear evening air to a coach driven by a man that Jack cannot see. It has taken Kerrigan’s many sons almost a week to find Jack. Kerrigan took the train back to Bridgeton with her and Jack’s horses and her belongings as soon as she received news of his whereabouts. Jack is as much a son as he is a friend to her. She has yet to see him in the light, but she is unsure whether it might drive her to tears to see her dear friend now. He stares blankly out the coach window, seeing very little. His head is spinning. Kerrigan sits stiffly at the other end of the bench inside the coach. Something is different about her, he thinks. He cannot fathom what it might be.

He drinks heavily on the ride home. He was in an opium den in Bridgeton, Hell’s oldest city. Bridgeton bridges the corners of three Districts: Five, Thirteen, and Twenty. He was deep in the District Thirteen part of the city, where the poorest of the Vampire poor live and die. He represents District Thirteen in the Senate. He lived there for a time in Bridgeton and its suburbs and has a certain pride shared by its citizens, who, despite their poverty, refuse charity or financial aid of any kind. Kerrigan represents District Twenty, which is north of the river that cuts eastern Bridgeton in half and isolates the citizens of the somewhat wealthier part of town from their poorer counterparts. District Twenty is slightly more affluent than District Thirteen.

Jack lives in District Five in an affluent community that predates the city itself. All of District Five is affluent, and most of its residents thumb their noses at their poorer neighbors. Jack hates to live there, but it is proper for a man of his social standing. The Senate House is in the District Five portion of Bridgeton proper, which lies northwest of the rest of the city on the opposite riverbank from the other two portions of the city on slightly higher ground. The ground climbs higher still into gently rolling hills. The roads in Bridgeton proper are paved with cobblestones. Outside of the city, they are not paved, despite the wealth of the area. Most of its residents agree that the unpaved roads are part of its rustic charm. In Jack’s opinion, they are wonderful as long as one enjoys the carriage becoming hopelessly stuck in ruts and visitors constantly tracking mud into the front hall from March until June and September until November as well as snow from December until February. The carriage shakes as the road changes from predictably paved cobblestones to gravel and mud covered by a thin layer of snow and ice, and the slow, yet noticeable, ascent into the hills begins. The jolt caused by the sudden end of the cobblestones causes the bottle from which Jack is drinking from to slam into his mouth. The resulting clatter causes Kerrigan to glance in his direction, and she realizes that he is bleeding considerably from his lip.

“Are you alright?” asks Kerrigan.

“I’m fine,” Jack growls.

She heals him magically anyhow, as it is a small enough injury that it takes very little out of her to so do, and she would rather not have Lynn fret too much upon the return of her husband. The poor girl has had a difficult enough time as it is, thinks Kerrigan. She begins to hum a lullaby softly. Jack moans in protest next to her, but she continues to hum. He knows the lullaby from his youth. It calms him somewhat, but in his head, the guilt will not leave him. By all rights, she should not be here with him, of all people. She adjusts herself in the coach seat. He puts his arm around her shoulders. She flinches away from him, so he apologizes for touching her.

“That is not the problem, Jack. I am injured.”

“Battle wounds?”

“You know well who caused me this pain. Please do not pretend that it was any other than my husband.”

“Ye’ve had a row, then?”

“We have not had a row, for I dare not to speak a word in defiance to him. He drank too much one evening, fell asleep, and woke in the middle of the night shouting. He threw me into a wall. Mind that you do not touch my left shoulder. It looks like something dreadful, but the internal injury is far worse than the bruising that you can see.”

Jack shivers and remains silent until they approach the light of his house, when he asks, “Why’d ye come?”

“I told you that I came out of a deep concern both for you and for your wife. As you know, Lynn is unaccustomed to Bridgeton still. She would not be safe coming to fetch you, nor would she be able to navigate the maze of streets. The only city she knows is Kilainaigh City, which is a small town by comparison.”

Kerrigan dismounts the carriage, falling into the deep snow. She regains her composure, though she is now cold and wet, and helps Jack out of the carriage. He leans heavily on her for support and guidance into the house. “Ye still ain’t told me what distressin’ news ye have for me. Can Lynn hear it?”

“She must not know. Do you remember the incident that happened between us on Samhain Eve?”

“Sure I do. Clear as day.”

“I went to my husband soon after.”

“Aye.”

“Jack, I am with child.”

“Whose is it?”

“I am certain that it is yours. I knew that I was pregnant before I went to see my husband.”

“So he knows?”

“He knows that I am with child. I will not be returning to the front lines for some time. He does not know whose child it is.”

“Boy or girl?”

“I do not know yet. I am nearly incapable of bearing daughters, though, so if it is a girl, she will likely miscarry.”

“That don’ help.”

“I know. I am sorry.”

“Damnú air! Tá tú glan as do mheabhair. Múchadh is bá ort. Is cuma liom sa diabhal. Téigh trasna ort féin. Ní mórán thú. Póg mo thóin.”

Jack attempts to flounce into the barn, but he only manages to stomp about seven feet before his impaired judgment, vision, and balance take precedence over his motivation, and he falls to the ground. Kerrigan helps him to his feet and leads him up the stairs to the house, despite the curses he rained down on her. She blames the drugs, just as she blames alcohol for what her husband does. On the steps, she looks up into Jack’s bleary, blue eyes far above her.

“Jack, promise me that you will not tell Lynn. Morietur does not know, and he will blame me first for infidelity and insubordination before he will blame you for a crime done unto me. My life and that of an unborn child depend upon you not telling anyone. No one must know.”

“I promise,” Jack says calmly before abruptly losing his temper and slamming his fist into the stone wall in disgust at his own actions, causing extreme pain and split knuckles but little real damage.

“Let us enter.”

“I’d rather stay in the barn, to be perfectly honest.”

“Jack, come inside. Your wife is within.”

“I don’ want to see her. I’d rather the bottoms o’ whiskey bottles an’ a smoke-filled cellar than me wife’s arms.”

“She will forgive you.”

“An’ ye won’t, an’ I know that.”

“I blame the opium and alcohol rather than you, my dear, wayward friend.”

“Thankee…”

“You are most welcome. Now, come inside before you die of the cold again.”

Kerrigan quietly opens the door and helps Jack inside, wary of the slippery marble floor in the front hall. She helps him to a chair near the door and removes his overcoat and shoes, placing his coat on the coat stand by the door and his shoes beneath it, before helping him to stand again and walking him into the drawing room. Lynn is sobbing. She does not glance upward or avert her gaze from her embroidery, assuming that the person who entered is Jack’s brother. Then she remembers that Shane is sitting in the armchair next to her and has a broken leg. She looks at the doorway and sees her dear friend wet and shivering and her husband leaning on the small woman’s shoulder for support. She walks across the room to then, her long nightgown flowing so gracefully that it seems like she is floating, and tightly embraces her husband. She helps him walk to his chair. Kerrigan had plans to stay in one of the guest rooms for the night, so she excuses herself to walk upstairs to her room, change into her nightgown, and hang her wet clothing in the guest bathroom.

“Sorry for not gettin’ up, Jack. Me leg’s broke,” says Shane.

“I can see that. When…?” asks Jack, still dazed from the opium and alcohol.

“What is it, Lynn, three weeks now?” asks Shane.

“That sounds right,” replies Lynn.

“What happened?” Jack asks.

“I was takin’ hay out o’ the loft when I fell down the ladder. I’m lucky ‘twas me leg an’ not me skull or me back. The twins’ve been checkin’ in on things, an’ Lynn’s been tendin’ the animals an’ choppin’ the firewood. Twins’ve taken care o’ the snow. Meanwhile, I’m stuck on the ground floor. The twins brought me things down to the sick room on this floor an’ made it up nice for me.”

“By God! I wish it never happened. Will ye be alright?”

“Ack! Don’ worry ‘bout me. I’ll be fine. I’ve been through worse. Sure, a broken leg’s nothin’ compared to nearly dyin’ o’ the cold tryin’ to get here last year.”

Kerrigan comes downstairs with a year-old baby in her left arm and a five-year-old boy on her right hip. Both of them were asleep when their father came home. Jason, the older boy, immediately becomes more lively when he sees his father. Kerrigan slides him the short distance to the floor, for she is exceptionally small, and he is a tall child like his father was at his age so long ago. Jason runs over to the armchair, where Jack is sitting, and jumps into his father’s lap. It is only ten o’clock at night, which is late for Jason, who only returned home the previous day for his winter break from boarding school. Kerrigan puts the baby next to the table on the floor. He pulls himself to his feet and slowly moves toward his father, falling between the table and his father’s leg. Jack bends down to pull his younger son onto his lap, causing the child to smile warily. John, the infant, recognizes Jack somewhat, but he has spent far more time with his mother and his father’s wife than he has with his father.

“Da’,” says Jason, pointing to Jack for the benefit of his younger brother.

“Da’!” repeats John triumphantly, smiling and hugging his father’s arm tightly.

“D’ye realize what day ‘tis, Jack?” asks Shane.

“No idea. Is it Yule?”

“O’course not. That’s two an’ a half weeks off yet. ‘Tis the fifth. Happy birthday, Jack.”

“Happy birthday, da’,” says Jason.

“Da’!” squeals John.

“Kerrigan, ye knew this, didn’t ye?” asks Jack.

“I certainly realize what day it is,” replies Kerrigan. “I was fortunate that my sons were able to locate you in time. There are, of course, strawberries and cream waiting in the kitchen and a bottle of much better whiskey than that which you have been drinking as well. There are also presents from everyone who knows and misses you.”

“Thankee, Kerrigan.”

“We missed you, Jack. Please do not run off like that again.”

“We missed ye, da’,” says Jason.

“Da’!” squeals John. “Da’! Da’!”

Lynn smiles as she watches her husband and stepsons. The boys are not hers, but she knows their mother very well, and they are like family to her. Despite her many years and her status as the Demon of Lust, she has no children. She became pregnant once, but she miscarried, a trait which is common in her family. She loves children. It is not for lack of trying that she is childless. She has hopes of having children with Jack someday. Currently, his two sons from his previous marriage are enough to keep her occupied when they visit. A slow, lazy snow begins to fall and swirl in large, lethargic flakes across the blackened, moonless sky. Lynn kisses Jack’s forehead and goes into the kitchen to make him dinner. Kerrigan follows her into the kitchen and returns with three glasses and a bottle of whiskey. She hands one glass to Shane and places another in front of Jack. The third glass she leaves for Lynn. She pours whiskey for the men.

“I thought Demons didn’t mind drinkin’ while pregnant,” says Jack, breaking his promise to say nothing.

“Ye’re pregnant?” asks Shane.

“I am,” replies Kerrigan. “While it is true that Demons often drink while pregnant, I do not feel the need to consume alcohol at this time.”

“Ack! ‘Tis somethin’ wonderful. Ye’re missin’ somethin’ wonderful, Kerr,” says Shane.

Lynn returns to the drawing room with Jack’s dinner, takes John from him, and says, “Jason, honey, please leave your father alone to eat.”

“Lynn, I think that it might be a good time to tell you the news. I am pregnant,” says Kerrigan.

“Pregnant?” asks Lynn.

“Yes, I am pregnant.”

“After all these years?”

“Yes, I am pregnant after all these years.”

“Maybe there’s hope for me after all, then.”

“You have had one miscarriage. I have had dozens. Keep faith. You will have a child one day.”

“Congratulations, Kerrigan.”

“Thank you, Lynn.”

“Aye, congratulations, Kerrigan,” Jack says, purposefully hiding the truth from his wife.

“I’m sure ‘twill be a lovely child, knowin’ who the ma’ is,” says Shane.

“Thank you, Jack. Thank you, Shane.”

If Jack had no beard, his face would look sunken and hollow. His bushy, red beard compensates for the lack of flesh nicely. His body has atrophied since he began smoking and injecting opium. He was once wiry. He is now little more than a skeleton with skin. His great height does not help to disprove this image. His eyes are a piercing, icy blue. His skin is remarkably pale, and his hair is as orange as fire. Kerrigan sits in an armchair by the fire studying Jack in the firelight. He is thinner than she remembers. He looks ill and hopeless. He spent much of the past year in and out of a sick bed with various injuries and illnesses, but his newfound addiction has taken the greatest toll on his body. He makes a bath for himself in the small bathroom by Shane’s sickroom. He looks somewhat better after dinner and a bath, but something is still noticeably strange about his appearance. He pulls back his fiery hair and drinks another shot of whiskey.

“Jack, what happened to you?” asks Kerrigan.

“When?”

“Your face is bruised. What happened?”

“Got the worst o’ a bar fight. Been through worse. Don’ worry. ‘Tis nothin’.”

Lynn brought the boys back to bed while Jack was in his bath, so only the adults remain downstairs. She looks closely at her husband’s face and draws away in horror. The entire left side of Jack’s face is bruised and bloodied. Jack assures her again that it is nothing. Lynn is convinced, though Kerrigan is not. She, being of a political mind, is far more difficult to fool. No amount of coaxing will make Jack relent and allow a doctor to see him. Kerrigan comes closer and touches one of the contusions, causing Jack to recoil in pain. She insists upon putting ice on it to stem the swelling. He does not argue with Kerrigan. She always wins, and even the Devil is afraid of her temper. She is, after all, the Demon of Wrath. Shane moans in pain as he pulls himself up onto his crutches, enabling him to retire to the sickroom for the night. He is a Werewolf, unlike his brother. He is a little shorter than Jack is, but everything about his body, from his heavy frame to his muscular physique, his confident posture, and his stoic expression, gives the impression of great power, everything excepting the broken leg. Despite his great physical power, he has a very even temper and wonderful manners compared to his brothers. After Shane leaves, Kerrigan, who is not feeling entirely well, goes upstairs to sleep for the night. Jack received whiskey, cigars, and brandy for his birthday. He proceeds to drink heavily before consenting to go to bed with his wife.

Once they are upstairs, Lynn cuddles up to Jack’s side immediately. He is warm and comforting. Since he has been gone, she has been having nightmares about her abusive first husband, who has been dead for some time. Two of Jack’s brothers and Kerrigan killed him for what he did to her. She was there when he died. Still, she cannot rid herself of the nightmares. She drinks with her current husband quite often when he is home, but it is never enough to help her to forget. With her husband in the bed with her, she feels safe from the old ghosts that haunt her and finally, for the first time in years, sleeps easily. Jack would be devastated if something were to happen to her, and she knows this. She gets out of bed and extinguishes the candles in the room before returning to bed and curling into a ball next to her husband of nearly a year. She curls into the warmth provided by his body, and his arms wrap around her instinctively. Jack has not slept, though he has been in a constant stupor, for quite some time. It takes him considerably longer than Lynn to fall asleep, but when slumber does come upon him, he is pleasantly surprised by the fact that it is deep and true and the nightmares, which plague him almost nightly and during the day when he uses opium, have no effect for once.

Jack has found peace. Peace has been lacking for too long, and his spirit needs a rest. He is not free from the alcohol or the opium, and he knows that they are controlling him. He does not mind. He knows that he is safe sleeping in his stone manor. Nothing and nobody can get to him here. It is warm, though not unpleasantly so, and the feeling of Lynn’s body next to his provides him with the kind of comfort to which nothing could ever compare. She is his wife. He is her husband. She promised to stay by him, and he promised the same. He is exalted that she stayed with him while he ran and took the drug of his shame. His uncle drank, though not heavily. There is no shame in drinking, thinks Jack, but opium is another thing entirely. It ought not be available so freely. He recently ate his first meal in weeks. To his own great surprise, he is still alive. Lynn made his favorite dinner that night: venison pie. It reminds him of the home where he was raised. His uncle tended sheep, but he also hunted to bring home meat to feed his family. Venison was common, and Jack grew quite fond of the taste. He ate strawberries and cream, his favorite dessert, afterward. He is very drunk. He did not tell Kerrigan that he cannot see out of his left eye, but, as a small consolation, his vision is not doubled with only one eye to focus. In the morning, he will see his sons. For now, he is content to rest.

Still he worries about Morietur, Kerrigan’s fearsome husband. He injured her shoulder badly for what was doubtlessly a minor transgression. Morietur is taller than Jack and far stronger than anyone Jack has ever met. He terrorizes his wife, and she hides the bruises and scars so that nobody will know. She is a steadfastly loyal wife. Jack just hopes that Morietur never discovers the fact that it was Jack who impregnated Kerrigan, not her husband. Every sound he hears within an hour of lying down is Morietur at the door ready to kill him or a pharmacist willing to give him medicinal comfort. Eventually, the calm surrounding Lynn pervades his restless thoughts as well, and his tormented mind may slumber. He pulls her closer to him, and she does not complain. He hopes that he might wake in her arms feeling as well as he did at night, but he knows that it is not a reality. He knows that in the morning he will probably not be able to get out of bed.

Within a matter of a couple of weeks, opium controlled Jack’s life completely. Now he is as addicted to it as he has been to alcohol and cigars for years. He has long feared the damage his addictions might do to Lynn. He feels immense guilt over her weeping at night and waiting for a husband who never comes home. He wishes that he never caused her pain and that his nature would not cause him to do these things. He kisses his wife on the forehead as she sleeps, and she smiles. Upon seeing her smile, his pain melts away far better than any drug could help it to do, and Jack falls asleep soundly smiling. He is a free man. He has a loving wife. He has a job and money. He has two lovely sons and a best friend willing to make a risky journey through back alleys and impoverished streets filled with crime at night in order to rescue him from his own nightmares and bad decisions in an opium den while she is pregnant with his child as a result of his greatest crime. He wishes that he might repay the favor someday, and, if only in his dreams, he does.