Standing on the edge: His Tale

He sat in the wooden chair, a lamp beside him casting light into the darkness. It was just enough to cast his shadow on the gloomy old walls, which could use a bit of renovation.

It felt familiar but also filled with resentment. The walls held stories of all the drama that had unfolded in the house. But this was his story, and only he could elucidate the emotions felt in each moment. We, hidden in the darkness, could only listen as we watched his illuminated face. 

He looked distant, maybe sad. All I knew is that happiness was not a word that fit here. I could see through him and sense the scars that run so deep. He yearned for love, for a place of safety. The storm had beaten him all his life and the scorching heat of the sun had burned him.  

His big heart bore scars of charring, but a small part still hoped to fill with love and give it in return. Life, cruelly, seemed to target the broken only to shatter them further. “If only,” I whispered to myself. 

Pardon me. This is his story, not mine to tell. Yet, I saw through him, became engrossed in the moment, and felt scared of what he might say.

I felt a lump forming in my throat. I wished the world had shown him kindness, that home had offered him a safe haven, and that I had brought happiness into his life. 

Why did I feel this overwhelming burden to make things right for him, wishing he had had a normal, simpler life? I couldn’t help the emotions running through me. 

I remarked that this urge to help had always stopped me from really listening to him. Whenever he tried to open up, I was always thinking of ways to help, words to comfort him, to move past the sadness. 

Now, sitting here as an audience when he has been driven to the edge, I finally noticed him. I saw his fears and tenderly shed a tear for how he had turned out. Only now do I see him and feel ready to listen. Oh, how I wish I had known earlier.  

This edge he stands on is terrifying. I feel scared and unprepared to listen. Will he come out of it even now that we are ready to listen? I’m afraid I’m going to sink in with him this time. 

Maybe that’s what I need, to be in it with him. He clears his throat. My heart pounds, my hands turn cold, sweat drenches my palms, and I watch a tear drop from his face. My own eyes are already brimming with tears.