Ink and Ash

Frank couldn’t sleep. Again. The clock radio glowed 3:17 AM, a malevolent green eye in the darkness. His wife, Sarah, breathed soft, even snores beside him, a world away. But Frank? He was stuck. Stuck on Mark, on the empty chair across the conference table, on the goddamn email that gutted him, subject line: 'A new direction for Sterling Group.' Sterling Group, his group, the one he and Mark built from nothing but spit and cheap coffee. Now Mark's group. Mark's new direction. Mark’s betrayal.

He slipped out of bed, careful not to jostle Sarah. The floorboards creaked under his bare feet, a familiar complaint in their old house. Downstairs, the kitchen felt cavernous and cold. He didn’t want coffee. He didn’t want whiskey. He just wanted the gnawing ache in his gut to stop. It had been weeks since Mark pulled the rug, since the lawyers got involved, since the polite, venomous phone calls. Weeks of walking around with a fist balled up in his chest, hitting nothing but air.

His gaze fell on the junk drawer. Not a drawer for junk, really, more a graveyard for half-used pens, old receipts, and a spiral-bound notebook he'd bought a decade ago for some half-baked business idea. A fresh sheet of paper, lined, clean. He pulled it out, a Bic pen from the bottom of the drawer. Blue ink, his preference.

He sat at the kitchen table, the cheap fluorescent light from over the stove humming a low, irritating note. For a long moment, the pen felt alien in his hand. What was he doing? Writing letters? He hadn't written a letter since high school, maybe. But the urge, primal and insistent, pushed him. He stared at the blank lines. Then, the first word: Mark.

It started slow, clunky. 'Mark, I don't know where to begin.' Standard, weak. He crumpled the page, tossed it. Tried again. 'You son of a bitch.' Better. Much better. The words started to flow then, a dark, churning river of grievance and hurt. He wrote about the long nights in the first office, smelling of stale pizza and ambition. He wrote about their wives becoming friends, about their kids growing up together, weekend barbecues, shared dreams of vacation homes they'd never buy. He wrote about trust, the sacred, stupid trust he'd placed in Mark, like an idiot leaving his wallet open on a park bench.

He wrote about the phone call, Mark’s voice, calm, almost regretful, explaining the 'difficult but necessary' decision. Explaining how Frank's 'traditional approach' was holding the company back. Traditional approach, Frank thought, meaning he actually gave a damn about the people working for them, not just the bottom line. He wrote about the gut punch, the slow burn of anger that followed, the nausea that came with knowing his best friend had systematically planned his ouster, all while shaking his hand, slapping his back.

His hand cramped. He shook it out, kept going. The ink bled a little on some words, pressed too hard. His handwriting, usually neat, devolved into a frantic scrawl. Accusations. Memories. Regrets. The things he wished he'd said in court, in the lawyer's office, on that final, sterile phone call. The things he wished he'd screamed. The things he wished he could take back, too, because maybe, just maybe, he’d been too trusting, too blind, too proud. He wrote it all down, the venom, the pity, the raw, ugly confusion of it all.

Hours passed. The sky outside the kitchen window began to lighten, a bruised purple giving way to a pale, watery grey. The fluorescent hummed, but it didn't bother him anymore. His coffee mug sat forgotten, cold. The notebook was filled, page after page, a monument to a broken friendship, a lost business, a fractured piece of himself. He leaned back in the chair, a long, shaky breath escaping him. His shoulders sagged. The tightness in his gut, for the first time in weeks, had loosened its grip.

He picked up the stack of pages, read a few lines here, a few there. The words were brutal, honest. If Mark read this, it would ignite a new war. A war Frank was too tired to fight. He folded the pages carefully, then slid them into a manila envelope he found lurking under a pile of bills. He wrote 'MARK' on the front in block letters, then hesitated. A faint smile touched his lips, a weary, knowing thing. He crossed out 'MARK,' then wrote 'NEVER SENT' underneath.

He took the envelope, walked over to the old cedar chest in the living room, the one his grandmother left him. Lifted the heavy lid. Inside, old photo albums, a dusty quilt. He tucked the envelope beneath the quilt. He didn't need to send it. He'd said it all, every last bitter word, every last shard of pain. And in the saying of it, even if only to himself, he'd taken back a piece of what Mark had stolen. He closed the lid. The house was quiet. He stood there for a moment, the faintest hint of sunrise on his face, then turned and walked towards the stairs. He felt, for the first time in forever, like he could actually breathe.