The Empathy Coffin.
Understanding and empathy are interconnected words, brothers in their language. To allow yourself into a person’s life within arm’s reach, to see their state of mind and how it works, how every answer they’ve come to has an equation behind it. To empathise their stand point, their villainy, their good deeds, or their misfortune, knowing to know that not a single being has a torturous mind or has a wholly angelic heart on the earth of every action.
It was difficult watching the body drop into the empty chasm, while his friends preached about how we should all understand why he did every bad action he had done. When I was young, I had broken the window of a shop, I was drunk, I didn’t know what I was doing. I might have been seeking out attention, but I remember after I broke it, seeing as I’d already committed one act, I could just as easily commit another one, so I stole their display clothes. I had no reason to, I just did it out of anarchy. When my Father found the new clothes he pushed on me, and asked how I had found them, after lie upon lie, he finally broke me. I confessed, and I felt worthless, knowing I had no excuse. I just did it.
Rather than taking the clothes back, my Father did what he usually did. He sat me down. And we ‘talked’.
‘You know, every good thing you’ve ever done. Every time you’ve babysat, every homeless person you’ve given money too, every door you’ve opened for a stranger, every smile you’ve given to someone lonely. It’ll all go up in flames with one bad act. People will instantly see you as a bad person, they’ll forget everythingyou’ve ever done. And that’ll be that. People are complex, we’re neither this, and we’re not that either. We’ve layered, complicated, existing and often frightened creatures. But on the surface, when we’re looking out to others we don’t see this complex species, we see black and white, good natured or bad natured. And most often than not the bad things stick out a whole lot more than any good things will ever do. So don’t be an idiot’.
He didn’t speak to me for a week after he said that. We passed and he acknowledged me, but he’d never asked how I was. He just left me with those words.
Watching that body drop I wanted to see past the hatred of what he had done. He had managed to pull on every string, tug every line that could unravel my life. Yet I had no reason to forgive him, he had painted himself a villain, chose not to be anything but a villain in my eyes. Then, I think about my Dad. Had I just seen that one side of him? Could I not fathom to think that he was something more than I person who seemed to spite me? I tried desperately out of guilt. His crying family were sat in front of me, all lining up to throw soil over is freshly planted coffin. Whether he deserved it, I can possibly recall that he never did anything out of spite, or at least I don’t think it was. It seemed nice to others. They smiled at him, a very genuine smile. The sort that didn’t come from history or judgement, just a warm smile to say hello, the more I thought of it, I rarely got the sort of smiles he received. I wondered if it was the stem of my hatred. Had I let bitterness dissolve a better nature, had I succumb to dim-witted passive aggressiveness all for the sake of attention, but that was the flaw with Father’s ideals, questioning yourself brings doubt, often you find yourself inferior to your own nemesis; often than not, with only a touch of self reflection.
Then the rain came pouring heavily. Like we hadn’t been through enough the droplets banged on our heads, our feet dug into the ground, sluggishly trying to move, I couldn’t be sure the reason behind me moving so slow. It was either the storm or my conscious, or my conscious turning into a storm. Doubting my hatred evermore, I tried to remember why I loathed him so passionately. His gravestone hadn’t even been planted. It was mud around grass, and a big, big ditch. They called him Fixtly. It could have been his last name, it could have been his first, yet why did it matter so much now he was dead?
I imagined his face, expressionless, eyes wide open hopelessly staring into an abyss. Then I shudder to think that I’m here, still breathing, still walking. Does anyone deserve death? Does a dead man deserve hate? My face was letting on my thoughts, my emotions, so I smiled at his family. I’m not even sure they knew me, it wouldn’t be impossible, but I hope they didn’t. They may have heard about me. Well by my reputation, the slut, the whore, the family killer. It was him, it was all him. He seduced me every time, he brushed against me every day, looked at me longingly, watched as a held that pen ever so long in my mouth. He left me, fired me, disowned me, the minute we fell into each other’s passions. I’d only known him by that name, Fixtly. That’s all he’d say about himself. And I hate him for it. Dead or not.
It was difficult watching the body drop into the empty chasm, while his friends preached about how we should all understand why he did every bad action he had done. When I was young, I had broken the window of a shop, I was drunk, I didn’t know what I was doing. I might have been seeking out attention, but I remember after I broke it, seeing as I’d already committed one act, I could just as easily commit another one, so I stole their display clothes. I had no reason to, I just did it out of anarchy. When my Father found the new clothes he pushed on me, and asked how I had found them, after lie upon lie, he finally broke me. I confessed, and I felt worthless, knowing I had no excuse. I just did it.
Rather than taking the clothes back, my Father did what he usually did. He sat me down. And we ‘talked’.
‘You know, every good thing you’ve ever done. Every time you’ve babysat, every homeless person you’ve given money too, every door you’ve opened for a stranger, every smile you’ve given to someone lonely. It’ll all go up in flames with one bad act. People will instantly see you as a bad person, they’ll forget everythingyou’ve ever done. And that’ll be that. People are complex, we’re neither this, and we’re not that either. We’ve layered, complicated, existing and often frightened creatures. But on the surface, when we’re looking out to others we don’t see this complex species, we see black and white, good natured or bad natured. And most often than not the bad things stick out a whole lot more than any good things will ever do. So don’t be an idiot’.
He didn’t speak to me for a week after he said that. We passed and he acknowledged me, but he’d never asked how I was. He just left me with those words.
Watching that body drop I wanted to see past the hatred of what he had done. He had managed to pull on every string, tug every line that could unravel my life. Yet I had no reason to forgive him, he had painted himself a villain, chose not to be anything but a villain in my eyes. Then, I think about my Dad. Had I just seen that one side of him? Could I not fathom to think that he was something more than I person who seemed to spite me? I tried desperately out of guilt. His crying family were sat in front of me, all lining up to throw soil over is freshly planted coffin. Whether he deserved it, I can possibly recall that he never did anything out of spite, or at least I don’t think it was. It seemed nice to others. They smiled at him, a very genuine smile. The sort that didn’t come from history or judgement, just a warm smile to say hello, the more I thought of it, I rarely got the sort of smiles he received. I wondered if it was the stem of my hatred. Had I let bitterness dissolve a better nature, had I succumb to dim-witted passive aggressiveness all for the sake of attention, but that was the flaw with Father’s ideals, questioning yourself brings doubt, often you find yourself inferior to your own nemesis; often than not, with only a touch of self reflection.
Then the rain came pouring heavily. Like we hadn’t been through enough the droplets banged on our heads, our feet dug into the ground, sluggishly trying to move, I couldn’t be sure the reason behind me moving so slow. It was either the storm or my conscious, or my conscious turning into a storm. Doubting my hatred evermore, I tried to remember why I loathed him so passionately. His gravestone hadn’t even been planted. It was mud around grass, and a big, big ditch. They called him Fixtly. It could have been his last name, it could have been his first, yet why did it matter so much now he was dead?
I imagined his face, expressionless, eyes wide open hopelessly staring into an abyss. Then I shudder to think that I’m here, still breathing, still walking. Does anyone deserve death? Does a dead man deserve hate? My face was letting on my thoughts, my emotions, so I smiled at his family. I’m not even sure they knew me, it wouldn’t be impossible, but I hope they didn’t. They may have heard about me. Well by my reputation, the slut, the whore, the family killer. It was him, it was all him. He seduced me every time, he brushed against me every day, looked at me longingly, watched as a held that pen ever so long in my mouth. He left me, fired me, disowned me, the minute we fell into each other’s passions. I’d only known him by that name, Fixtly. That’s all he’d say about himself. And I hate him for it. Dead or not.
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