CLEMENTS, ARTHUR d6 [cbd #1]
Dec 31, 2014 23:55:47 GMT -5
Post by shrimp on Dec 31, 2014 23:55:47 GMT -5
ARTHUR CLEMENTS | MALE | 42 YEARS | ODAIR
They wouldn't know what's going on in his mind, the man who's always working on discovering the next cure. He was always exacting his work, a perfectionist to a fault, even down to the crisply cut red hair and symmetrical facial hair (they don't talk about the fact that his hair's been turning a crisp gray for years since his wife's death and that the wrinkles on his forehead and around his eyes have become more prominent ever since his daughter fell from the observatory).
They don't talk about how he's alone now, that his house is too big for one man. They flip the channel when he's in the room, stop talking about Galaxy when he walks past. To them she's already been dead, having vanished for a year or so - he'd take off of work for days to go visit her at first, but soon they'd find him collapsed on his desk at 5 in the morning until he woke up by 7 and worked until 9.
They remember when he laughed along with their jokes, when he and Marie and their daughter spent nights staring at the stars. The couple seemed like complete opposites: she was bubbly and energetic and romantic, he was practical and subdued and logical, but their smiles were always brighter when around each other. When she passed they never saw him smile as largely again. He was quicker to anger and his days were spent furiously trying to find the disease which killed her. To date, he hasn't.
And perhaps he never will. Low on funds and low on hope, he feels like his checkmate is approaching, and fast.
