Introducing Atticus, Scientist, Genius

This is an excerpt from a fantasy novel I have been working on for years. After losing his family, Atticus is contemplating the unthinkable when he is rudely interrupted.

            For a moment Atticus felt quite ill by this realization. It made all his memories feel shifty like they were being tossed around, shaken about on the deck of a rocking boat. He could not grab at them, any one single memory. They were clumped together. Everything ceased to make sense but at the same time on an equal level of solidity, everything did make sense. It was just too terrible to actually ponder.

            That feeling and everything associated with it too became deliquesce. The world was a contradictory place; a large ocean of lies with small hidden islands of truth. 'What is true and real to us- our families, our love, can be taken away from us and erased, cleaned-up as if never there. The idea of love transcending time and cruelty has become extinct and thus, nothing matters and nothing can be done. It was only a matter of time anyways. A matter of time before he died, got sick, arrested or one of those fates befell upon his family or friends. Why not his time now? Why live without hope except to rob it of others and make them equally miserable? That's not right. It's no way to live. This is no place to live.' Horrifying thoughts came into his mind with a surreal sort of peace. There was one final thing he could control.

            Atticus knew that if he could just manage to stomach a small amount of the poison, he would be gone and there was no coming back. To be sure, he mixed the bitter tar with the small amount of the Caalm he had left. It turned from gold to a dingy purple color, thicker and full of resin.

            The memories, still shifting, were random and precious. He focused on a memory of a sunny afternoon in his past with his wife and their daughter who must have been about four years of age. Her golden curls shined in the sun along with the yellow flowers and his wife's rubbery yellow shoes. That day, he failed to realize that he was living the best moments of his life. Of course, no one wants to realize something like that as it is happening but for some reason, he wished he could have. Maybe he would have appreciated it more. It was a golden time; so precious. Atticus would rather die than have that stolen from him, like his daughter, like his wife.

            He sat on his blue sofa in a trance-like state for a stretch of time with the glass of poisonous Caalm pressed to his lips like a slow kiss, convinced he would feel the right moment. Then as if the world had been silent, the door burst open with an explosion of noise and Mirf came trampling in still lecturing Menz and Varuek.

            "Oh, for goodness sakes!" Atticus protested, nearly spilling the Caalm. Having never been one to desire company, this particular moment was on another level of irritation. He felt truly invaded upon. "What kind of intrusive pracks bust open a dying man's door and rob him of his last moments of peace?" He yelled fairly certain he had never yelled so loudly in all of his years. His memories were so fluid he would have to take his own word for it.