'The Weathered Man' & other works by Diego Reyes

A Sickness in Summerlin

1

The eighth of August.

I should have suspected I had lost my mind prior to writing this diary, however, here we are. I hang on to my sanity like a man does his home, and I am sure my eviction is yet to come. The sentences I write to you are supposed to be evidence of sanity. Each word a witness, and every paragraph acting as proof of the events that will follow. Please, pay your attention to every detail.

I pride myself in many areas of my life. In my profession, in my character, my intelligence...but above all my memory. From another's lens, it may seem such a minute thing to carry such importance but allow me to explain. A man's memory is his ego, his soul, and heart. It must never be rewritten, nor destroyed, nor tainted by poisoned recounts. It holds the teachings he had learned through the years. It acts as both rehabilitation and calamity. However, most importantly, (from personal experience) it acts as a reminder of his sanity. Yes. Inside the mind of man lies endless folders of his life. With every event that he acts as witness, his mind holds every timestamp and summary. A man knows what had happened decades ago and is required no evidence simply by remembering. Go back and reread this, if need be, because this may very well be the most vital paragraph of this diary.

2

Same day.

My life, if I could remember it, and I very much do remember it, has always been splendid. I fathered a wonderful daughter who has given me a grandson that reminds me of myself. My Linda James is kind, patient, and supportive to a fault. Much like her mother was - before her passing. It is her naivety that has me writing this entry, well, her husband Theodore Grant mostly is to blame which we'll go further soon. For the 72 years of my life, I have never met an evil bastard with a cynical ideology as him. I'll start by simply suggesting that I have never approved of him. My Linda could have picked a man of worth, able enough to support her, yet, it is her kind soul that has landed her a poor man. A poor, opportunistic, punk. My Linda if you read this: I am not sorry! Your husband is indeed an evil bastard and I have never met any such as him in my 72 years of life. Please do not show her this. If you do, then please allow me into the room. I must defend myself.

As a doctor, you must get this a lot, no? Old men like me, stubborn to the bone, saying things they later wish they hadn't said. Well, I do not care. I've always been like this.

You've assigned me this diary. To keep track of my day-to-day life and describe every detail that face before me. For what, exactly, I do not know. An insane man would never live the life I have lived. I can remember things, I can still do things, and I can end things! However, for the sake of my dear Linda, I'll comply.

Though, I know how this was assigned to me. It was last week when she and Theodore Grant came over for a weekend with the kids. I remember me cooking a luxurious dinner for my Linda and me. I made her a plate big enough to share with Theodore Grant. I also made a side dish for Michael (my grandson) as he requested my most famous Macaroni and Mozzarella. I allowed the other one (the mini Grant) to have a bowl, as well.

I remember Theodore Grant talking to me. His mousy voice buzzed at my ear, and my body knew just how insignificant he was to me, that his voice was inaudible. My Linda claims I suffered through a seizure. I remember her nudging me, and even her touch felt as if she were touching me with a five-layered glove.

That moment, after dinner, Michael and the other one was roasting marshmallows outside. The night was cool, and the stars really showed out that night. I remember staring blankly at them, then my eyes darted back to Theodore. He was speaking lowly and intimate with Linda, who would make frequent contact to me. I knew they were speaking about me. Wondering if the old man was just nearly about to "lose it."