The World has no place for Goodness. Chapter 1: Pg 1 - 4

a man standing in front of a mirror in a bathroom — Photo by Emma Ou on Unsplash

His fists clenched, his body trembling with a rage that shook the grimy mirror as he heaved and sobbed. The fluorescent light sputtered, each pulse echoing the frantic beat of his heart in the oppressive silence. A tear slipped down his cheek, mirroring the relentless, watery rhythm of the dripping faucet and the sterile odor. His reflection stared back at him, eyes red and swollen, a visage of despair.

His fingers, stained with time, stroked the faded threads of kindness, each touch a tear. He longed to cradle the world in benevolence, to plant seeds of kindness in barren lands. Sweetness dripped from his every word, compassion like a gentle rain. From his scarce bounty, he cast nets of sharing, catching both the familiar and the unknown. He dreamt of wearing the cloak of a philanthropist, of lifting the world from hunger’s grip. His heart, a chalice overflowing with generosity, spilled until it lay bare and aching, yet still he gave, even as emptiness whispered in his bones.

But now, he felt off, as if something had shifted beneath his feet. First, his job. The thing that gave his life purpose disappeared quickly. Then his wife left him, her eyes cold and unyielding as she walked away. She had taken their children, and the courts had vilified him, cutting him from their lives like a diseased limb. He was a ghost in his own story, a shadow without substance.

He felt like a piece of shit and a failure. Nothing worked. Everything he touched seemed to crumble. He was drowning in grief, sinking with despair. So here he was, holding it, standing in front of the mirror. In his hand, the weight of the object felt like a cold and unyielding promise. Nothing could save him from himself now. This was it. This was the last step.

With trembling fingers now brushing against the trigger as he raised it to his head, the door suddenly creaked open. The sound was sharp and unexpected, slicing through the silence like a knife. He quickly tossed the firearm into the pocket of his coat, the metal clinking softly against the fabric. His heart pounded in his chest, a frantic drumbeat of fear and shame.

The man who entered seemed oblivious to the storm raging within him. He stood next to him and peed at the next urinal, the sound of water against porcelain loud in the quiet. The stranger washed his hands; the soap releasing a clean, citrus scent into the air. He grabbed a paper napkin and dried his hands, the rustle of paper a whisper in the silence.

He dared not look up, his eyes fixed on the cracked tiles beneath his feet. His breathing was shallow, his chest tight with the effort of holding himself together. The stranger’s presence was a tether, grounding him in the here and now, keeping him from slipping away entirely.

“Rough night?” The stranger’s voice was soft, almost kind, like the gentle touch of a hand on a fevered brow. It startled him, and he glanced up, meeting the man’s gaze in the mirror. There was no judgment there, only a quiet understanding that wrapped around him like a warm embrace.

He nodded, unable to find words that wouldn’t betray him. His throat was a desert, barren, where nothing could grow. The stranger smiled, a small, sad curve of his lips that spoke volumes without uttering a single word. He patted him on the shoulder, the gesture simple yet profound, an anchor in the churning sea.