Eddy's life hardly changed after that night. He still drank too much and fielded his phone calls from the few people who still knew his number and bothered to use it, but there was one small change. A return to form, so to speak.<br/><br/>Eddy used to go everywhere with a sketchbook in his pocket. He had stopped once he had gotten the diagnosis from the doctor, the one that said that Eddy's arthritis was so advance that he couldnt reccomend surgery. The procedure and recovery time to heal would be an ordeal in itself, and it would only serve to lessen his pain in his retirement, not return him to work.<br/><br/>The arthritis would come back eventually no matter what was done. Picking up the chisel and hammer again would only bring it back faster. So he was unequivocally grounded from sculpting.<br/><br/>But he could still sketch. It was painful and frustrating and he had to use an oversized pencil with a stupid rubber grip made specifically for the disabled, but Eddy could sketch. The grip had been a gift from his ex-assistant and he had locked it away in a junk drawer right in front of her, angry and hateful when she was only trying to help.<br/><br/>She'd be glad to know he was using it, but Eddy would never let her know.<br/><br/>He used it when the bar was empty, drawing behind the counter at the darkest hours when there was nothing better to do. It was slow work, and he had to quit often before his dissatisfaction could choke him into a blind rage, but he had a few pages filled. And that... that was something at least.