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remembered his appointment with the attorney was scheduled for Monday.  According to the lawyer’s website, he was going to need to put together more than a few documents that would be given to the executor of his estate upon his death.  It was a gruesome subject but he could get a head start on some of the stuff which he knew were stored in the closet bedroom he’d set up as his office.
    At least it’d keep his mind off of his Dory and her kid for a while!
    Bishop shuffled into his make-shift office, one that he rarely used since he’d gotten the laptop but where all his important papers and files were stored in banker’s boxes marked by the date range.  Opening the closet door, he took in the stacks of boxes and at the sight he felt a heaviness creep through him.  Only seventeen boxes that held the records of his life, that chronicled various achievements, troubles and highlights of what he’d experienced in his thirty-eight years.
    It didn’t seem like much. 
    In his mind and to his memory, there should’ve been a hell of a lot more.
    Maybe because she was so front-and-center on his mind, Bishop pulled out the box marked 1995 – 1998 as well as the one labeled 1999 – 2001.  He wasn’t necessarily looking for a walk down memory lane so much as to find the legal documents that gave evidence to their marriage.
    And its demise.
    Sliding the boxes over to the sofa-bed tucked up underneath the windows that looked out over the side yard, he plopped down into the cushions with a sigh.  Not too long ago, he wouldn’t have thought twice about carrying the crates to wherever he needed them to be.  But they were too heavy, too bulky for that to be considered and he had been forced to use a foot to push them along the carpet. 
    What a motherfucking joke , he thought propping his elbows on his knees and dropping his face to his hands.   Too alive to just keel over and yet too sick to really live!  
    Dark thoughts and emotions churned within him and for once, Bishop let them come.  They’d been around for a while and he’d always pushed them into a corner, denying them a foothold.  He couldn’t control the pain but he could control his thoughts and emotions, something he’d learned when he was a teen and battling his addictions.  He was tired of the fight though.  Tired of using iron control to keep his spirits up, his mind on the ‘goddamn sunny side of the street’ as his grandpa used to say.
    The thoughts seemed worse lately and he wondered if those negative feelings were the beginning of the depression that so many websites cited.  When he’d first started to investigate the disease, he’d only read about the physical shit:  what he could expect, what his body would do and how it would react.  But the more he read, the more he investigated, he found himself reading about the other parts of him that would be affected by the pain.  That the physical was only one fucking portion of the motherfucking equation.
    One site had suggested taking private time to allow those emotions a voice, to let them out incrementally in order to prevent them from completely taking over when the physical pain was at its worst.  When he’d first read those words, he’d immediately called ‘bullshit’ on the idea.  He’d always been an upbeat guy, up for a good time and a rousing laugh with his brothers so the thought that he would ever need to express his anger, his frustration and grief seemed like a farfetched notion.
    But he was sensing them then.  Feeling them slithering through him like a den of snakes, through his mind and heart so strongly that he couldn’t escape their touch.  And the fact that he couldn’t get rid of them, couldn’t control them, pissed him right the fuck off!
    Okay.  So he was angry.  Admitting the emotion, of being mad was the first step in process if he remembered correctly. 
    But he wasn’t just peeved, he was enraged!  And as Bishop allowed his fury out of the carefully