Egon Tusk #5

Reflections

The morning light was soft and golden, streaming through the gauzy curtains of the ashram suite. Egon Tusk stirred groggily in the bed, disoriented by the quiet serenity. The familiar comfort of Vivek’s presence was missing. He blinked awake, his eyes darting around the room, only to spot a neatly folded note on the pillow beside him.

The note read:

*Egon, my love,

I’ve gone to New Delhi for a meeting with a company working on cleaning the Ganges. Rest today and reflect. I’ll return tonight. Love always, Vivek.*

Egon let the note fall onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as waves of emotion washed over him. Without Vivek beside him, the emptiness felt sharper, more pronounced. His thoughts began to churn, dragging him back through the memories he had worked so hard to suppress.

He thought of Lillian. His daughter—his bright, fierce, compassionate daughter. The last time he’d seen her had been one of the worst days of his life, though he hadn’t realized it at the time. He’d been so consumed by the whirlwind of his ambition and the intoxicating influence of Donold Grump that he’d pushed her away.

That fight... Egon’s stomach twisted as he recalled the venom in his own voice, the righteous anger that had consumed him. Lillian had come to him, trying to bridge the gap. She had spoken of love, understanding, and the need for justice. She had spoken of her "Woke" values with a quiet dignity that had only fueled his rage.

“You’re infected with the Woke mind virus!” he had shouted at her, his face red with fury. “You’re not my daughter anymore. You’re a stranger, brainwashed and deluded. Get out of my sight!”

She had stood there, tears streaming down her face, her hands trembling. “Dad, please,” she had whispered. “Just listen to me. Please.”

But he hadn’t listened. He’d only yelled louder, driven by his own fear and insecurity. He’d told her she was disowned, dead to him. And then she had left, silent but shattered, the sound of the door closing behind her echoing in his mind ever since.

Egon covered his face with his hands, his chest heaving as the guilt threatened to crush him. How had he let it come to that? How had he let Grump’s manipulations and his own ego blind him to what truly mattered?

Grump. The name itself was a bitter pill. Egon had been a willing pawn, throwing his money and influence behind a man who cared for nothing but his own power. Grump had used him, twisted him around his little finger, promising glory and delivering only destruction. The mushrooms had dulled his senses, clouded his judgment, and he still didn’t know where they had come from.

Who gave them to me? The question gnawed at him. Someone had planted the seeds of his addiction, and he needed to find out who. He would start a private investigation, discreet but thorough. He couldn’t let this mystery linger any longer.

But more than the mushrooms, more than Grump, it was his own choices that haunted him. He had placed his ambition above his family, above Lillian. And now he had to live with the consequences.

Yet, amidst the despair, a sliver of hope remained. He thought of Vivek’s unwavering support, his steady presence, and the love that had begun to heal the fractures in his soul. He thought of the possibility of rebuilding, of reaching out to Lillian and trying, however imperfectly, to make amends.

“I don’t deserve her forgiveness,” he whispered to the empty room. “But I have to try."

The decision settled over him like a quiet resolve. When Vivek returned, he would share his plan. Together, they would find a way forward. He would face Lillian, confess his wrongs, and beg for the chance to prove he could be better.

As the morning stretched into afternoon, Egon stayed in bed, lost in his reflections. The path ahead was daunting, but for the first time in a long time, he felt the stirrings of hope. He wasn’t alone anymore. With Vivek by his side, he could begin to heal—and perhaps, one day, so could Lillian.

As he lay there, the sounds of the ashram filtering in through the open window—the faint chanting of monks, the rustle of trees—Egon closed his eyes and allowed a single tear to escape, carrying with it a prayer he hadn’t dared voice in years. "Please, let me make things right."