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. He looked around the house where he had spent most of his childhood and teenage years.  

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, because all his life he had only known being beaten by the storm and burned by the scorching heat of the sun.  

His heart, though big, had been charred, but a small part still hoped to be filled and to give love. It was sad that life seemed to take the broken and break them even more. “If only,” I whispered to myself. 

Pardon me. This is his story, not mine to tell. But I couldn’t help seeing through him, being engrossed in this moment, and feeling scared of what he might say.  

I felt a lump forming in my throat. I wished the world had been kinder to him, that home had been a safe haven, and that I had been a source of happiness for him.  

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. 

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’m scared, and I don’t think I’m ready 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 starts pounding, my hands are cold, sweat covers my palms, and I see a tear drop from his face. Mine is already filled with tears.