kelby_lake
06-28-2008, 01:49 PM
He was a stranger. I didn't even know his name, and yet here I am, writing this. I estimated him at about 35, could be less.
The man was depressed and reserved when I found him sitting on the dark, cold, grey pavement. I don't normally talk to strangers, but it was raining and he was clearly upset.
'Are you okay?' I asked him. The obligatory question which made little sense as I could see my answer.
'Yes,' he smiled back, sarcastically. He rolled his eyes and pulled his black trenchcoat tighter around him. As he did this, he exposed a large bruise on his neck. I would have assumed it was just a love bite, except it started gushing with blood. There was a deep scratch on top of the bruise, and blood was flowing freely out, mixing with the growing rain until it became a pale little river. He slapped it.
'Don't do that!' I shouted. I found a tissue in my bag and dabbed at it.
'Oh, thanks. It'll stop soon anyway,' the man replied, quietly. He pulled up the collar on his coat so the wound was no longer visible. I could still see a wound though; I pictured it in my head. A severer wound, somewhere else.
'Were you in a fight?' I asked.
'Of sorts.'
'Can you tell me who did it. Do you know?'
'Yes. I have more, nail scratches, knife wounds, burns. Look, here's one of the burns.' The man showed me his wrist, adorned with scatches, and in the middle of them, a white burn. 'It happens every Friday'
I didn't want to pry into the matter but how could I help it? The poor man was shaking. I tried to pull him up but he pulled away, so he was still on the pavement.
'You have to go to a hospital,' I told him. The stranger's wounds were violent and frightening. He looked up at me. I gasped, overcome with sorrow. He even had wounds all over his face.
'I used to be good-looking once,' he told me in his bizarrely soft voice, with sorrowfully dreamy qualities as if he was talking to someone who'd broken his heart. 'Really good-looking.'
That was the other thing that struck me about him. His face was nicely defined and I could believe that he really had been stunning.
'She didn't like it. My wife. She was so jealous, so consumed with jealousy. I couldn't go out and see people because I loved her and I knew she wouldn't like it. Doing everyday things like that would break her heart. It broke so easily. She'd married me out of guilt- first year of college. We all knew she'd gone with a lecturer twice her age, and so she went out with me to prove that she was entirely normal. Then we got married, a bad idea. She started all this then.' The man rolled up his coat sleeves with his shirt sleeves as far as he could. I gasped, it was awful. Then he let the coat fall off his shoulders and undid three buttons so he could pull his shirt sleeves to his shoulders. The
scratches, knife-cuts, bruises, burns...all seemed to form some hideous pattern. Sinister ornaments.
'Oh, God,' I whispered.
'Give me your hand'. I did so and he carried it gently to his face. I ran it along
his face and couldn't find a single bit of flesh that was smooth, save for the burns.
'You have to leave her,' I told him, shakily. The rain and the cold and the horror of it all had made me tremble.
'No. I love her. And one day, one fine morning, she'll wake up and love me. She has to be capable of it. Somewhere underneath all that violence and hate.' He sighed deeply. 'Will you go now?'
'If you want me to,' I replied. I offered my hand for him to shake but he retreated into his trenchcoat.
'Don't touch me, I'll die if you touch me,' he stammered, and hugged himself tightly.
And so I left him. I wasn't callous, but truly deeply concerned about him, so much so that I couldn't entangle myself in a web like that. A hurtful painful web which I hope he freed himself from.
I wish my stranger, wherever he is, the will to break free and some sort of happiness. My only job for him is to tell this story, which mutates and becomes stranger and closer and deeper with each telling.
The man was depressed and reserved when I found him sitting on the dark, cold, grey pavement. I don't normally talk to strangers, but it was raining and he was clearly upset.
'Are you okay?' I asked him. The obligatory question which made little sense as I could see my answer.
'Yes,' he smiled back, sarcastically. He rolled his eyes and pulled his black trenchcoat tighter around him. As he did this, he exposed a large bruise on his neck. I would have assumed it was just a love bite, except it started gushing with blood. There was a deep scratch on top of the bruise, and blood was flowing freely out, mixing with the growing rain until it became a pale little river. He slapped it.
'Don't do that!' I shouted. I found a tissue in my bag and dabbed at it.
'Oh, thanks. It'll stop soon anyway,' the man replied, quietly. He pulled up the collar on his coat so the wound was no longer visible. I could still see a wound though; I pictured it in my head. A severer wound, somewhere else.
'Were you in a fight?' I asked.
'Of sorts.'
'Can you tell me who did it. Do you know?'
'Yes. I have more, nail scratches, knife wounds, burns. Look, here's one of the burns.' The man showed me his wrist, adorned with scatches, and in the middle of them, a white burn. 'It happens every Friday'
I didn't want to pry into the matter but how could I help it? The poor man was shaking. I tried to pull him up but he pulled away, so he was still on the pavement.
'You have to go to a hospital,' I told him. The stranger's wounds were violent and frightening. He looked up at me. I gasped, overcome with sorrow. He even had wounds all over his face.
'I used to be good-looking once,' he told me in his bizarrely soft voice, with sorrowfully dreamy qualities as if he was talking to someone who'd broken his heart. 'Really good-looking.'
That was the other thing that struck me about him. His face was nicely defined and I could believe that he really had been stunning.
'She didn't like it. My wife. She was so jealous, so consumed with jealousy. I couldn't go out and see people because I loved her and I knew she wouldn't like it. Doing everyday things like that would break her heart. It broke so easily. She'd married me out of guilt- first year of college. We all knew she'd gone with a lecturer twice her age, and so she went out with me to prove that she was entirely normal. Then we got married, a bad idea. She started all this then.' The man rolled up his coat sleeves with his shirt sleeves as far as he could. I gasped, it was awful. Then he let the coat fall off his shoulders and undid three buttons so he could pull his shirt sleeves to his shoulders. The
scratches, knife-cuts, bruises, burns...all seemed to form some hideous pattern. Sinister ornaments.
'Oh, God,' I whispered.
'Give me your hand'. I did so and he carried it gently to his face. I ran it along
his face and couldn't find a single bit of flesh that was smooth, save for the burns.
'You have to leave her,' I told him, shakily. The rain and the cold and the horror of it all had made me tremble.
'No. I love her. And one day, one fine morning, she'll wake up and love me. She has to be capable of it. Somewhere underneath all that violence and hate.' He sighed deeply. 'Will you go now?'
'If you want me to,' I replied. I offered my hand for him to shake but he retreated into his trenchcoat.
'Don't touch me, I'll die if you touch me,' he stammered, and hugged himself tightly.
And so I left him. I wasn't callous, but truly deeply concerned about him, so much so that I couldn't entangle myself in a web like that. A hurtful painful web which I hope he freed himself from.
I wish my stranger, wherever he is, the will to break free and some sort of happiness. My only job for him is to tell this story, which mutates and becomes stranger and closer and deeper with each telling.