The Good Person?

The Good Person?

A man lay broken on the margins of society, like a wounded animal discarded by a world that was too fast, too selfish, too loud.

Once strong, once capable, he was now invisible. Spat out by a hostile world of greedy, self-serving, egocentric beings.

Unbelievable tragedies and unfortunate coincidences marred his life. He had been so strong for so long. Working two demanding jobs, he rushed home to cook and clean, struggled to make it through the exhausting days, only to lie awake at night listening to his son wheezing.

That breath was gone now, and so was his reason for being. His mother, following the birth he missed due to work obligations and downtown traffic, was not monitored by the hospital staff and was eventually found heavily bleeding because of a retained placenta. It was too late to save her, and she had passed away, unoticed, with her crying baby in her arms.

He did his absolute best to raise his son. A welcome distraction from the suffering of unbearable grief and loss. No one called or seemed to care, but the truth was no one knew what to say, so avoidance was the preferred option.

As he lay, with his face in his hands, still and lifeless, smothering the words of a prayer — to the one who promised to hear. No one heard as he shut down, retreating into the unconscious safety of oblivion. He blocked out the present, redrew the past, and reconstructed negatives into something he could survive. Anything to dull the pain. Anything to hold off the slow, grinding death of his humanity — dying with every beat of his shattered heart and every passerby with rose-tinted blinkers. Who preferred not to engage. Thinking too sad, too bad.

“What can I take from this life?” is most people's mantra. The world had become a hostile feeding frenzy of want. People demanded the optimum joy from every moment. No matter the damage to others. No capacity for compassion or empathy. Just takers. And the takers had drained the earth dry, wasting its resources and creating a barren, careless void in themselves and the planet, a wasted wasteland of used-up potential. When his son died after a severe chest infection, the careless void entered his heart.

As he lay, in the calamity and ashes of his once beautiful life, his invisible bleeding wounds haemorrhaging his soul away. He longed for his wife and his son. He longed to go back, to leave work earlier so as not to miss the birth, to have called the paramedics sooner. The fire he once had for life now extinguished by personal tragedy and the relentless grind of a societal system he did not understand. He wondered why him. He never understood the rules of engagement, the subtle hints in a dishonest voice. Always seeing the good and believing the best. A view, the people of this hostile world, saw through their own deceitful eyes and regarded him with suspicion. He had been so strong for so long. Sustaining his mask of success while misfortune reigned was a heavy burden he could not endure. He was always seen as the rock everyone depended on, but now, no one lent a single moment of support or encouragement. His collapse was sudden, the final exhale of a man whose tragic life had been suffocating for too long.

Some naysayers announced that his weighty life was of his own making, that maybe he deserved everything he got, and that perhaps this was his punishment for a secret sin. But their judgment was just a smokescreen—a way to silence their own guilt, their own complicity in his demise. The man, in all humility, was fully aware of his mistakes and craved mercy, love, and understanding.

Many people passed him by as he lay on the side of life, invisible, unseen to most. He appeared very well dressed, although a little dusty, in a business-like fashion, and his grey hair was well groomed and his nails neatly manicured. He looked like he was coping…he was always polite. He would greet passers-by with a don’t worry; I’m fine expression on his face…which was a great relief to all as no one really wanted to help…they all had their own shit to deal with.

On this day, when he could no longer muster the emotional strength to greet anyone, A passerby paused and looked at him with curiosity.

The man lay motionless, haunted by thoughts of his past, his present, his difficulty reaching out for help. His solid belief was that no one cared. The potential of connections doomed to cause further heartache was all too terrifying. He didn’t look up. He was vaguely aware of the passerby staring at him, and he felt pretty sorry for himself; the emotions were so overwhelming they filled his brain, swirling, torturing, screaming for mercy from the pain and hostility of a cruel world.

The passerby stepped closer, dressed in crisp white attire with a short black collar, a shiny black belt on his white trousers, and patent black shoes, he continued to stare. Then, as he reached out a hand, the broken man was sickened by the smell the overpowering scent of musk and citrus.

“Hello, can I help you?” said the white figure, his tone stiff and starchy like his clothes.

Alas, the man did not have the strength to respond…

The tall, slim figure in white, frustrated by the man’s silent rebuff, kicked him with one shiny black shoe and said angrily

“Why aren’t you responding? I am at a loss to know what I have done to offend you.?”

Realising he was rude by not responding, the man quietly weakly uttered his apology….

” I’m sorry I couldn’t respond; I’m just not feeling myself. Please forgive me.”

The figure in white was not happy with this apology. His indignation at being rebuffed pushed him to remark almost instantly and without thought…

“Well, why don’t we move you to a place where you don’t draw so much attention…can you get up?” …. Come on now! GET UP!”

The man was confused and could not grasp why this person, a professed man of God, respected in the community for his good deeds, was demanding that he “get up” and move on when he was clearly slipping through the cracks of his mind into a black hole of oblivion and unconscious peace.

“It will be for your own good,” said the figure in white. You will be better off being with those of your kind down there on the scrap heap, not up here where everyone can see you!”

By now, the man had almost zoned out, disassociated and withdrawn from all so-called normal society. He was silent, with his empty eyes closed and his furrowed face long and drawn with grief. He tried to prop himself up.

The glaring white figure continued his harassment.

“I’ve noticed that some others passing by spoke to you…you appeared to respond to them. They all live down there…with others of your kind…please let me help you get out of sight. It will be good for you.”

The poor man was aghast, dumbfounded at this man of God’s astonishing response. His confusion intensified at the suggestions he was hearing. None of this made any sense. He had always believed the godly people in white were the good ones. Kind. Empathetic. Philanthropic, even. That is what they preached. That is what the brochures said. But what he heard now was not kindness. It was management. It was shame in polished shoes. Performance over compassion. What was happening? His brain fogged over. He curled into a foetal position and sobbed. Why did he have to go down there? Is that where he belonged? Did he need to be with others who were also incredibly broken and burdened by the hostilities and cruelties of life?

Many harsh circumstances had damaged the ‘others’ like him. Survivors of War zones, of infidelity and betrayal or the fatherless girl whose only crime was to be born of a parent who committed suicide before she was a teen. Or the woman who lost her mind so far in her past that she had completely detached from all reality? Was that where he needed to be? How would this help him?

The phoney figure in white took on an insistent tone as he continued…

“This is for your own good; you will be better off.” Exasperated, the figure in white suddenly had a change of heart. He blurted out with frustration, “Oh my God! I can’t look after you or anyone or everyone; I’ve decided I don’t want to be a Philanthropic, godly person anymore. It’s all too much for me!” And he hurried off, embarrassed and rightly ashamed of his hypocrisy and lack of empathy.

His volt face was shocking, but the man responded to this sudden change genuinely in an effort to be kind. He tried to reassure the passerby, the figure in white, that he was a good and acceptable philanthropist, that he was genuinely grateful for all attempts to help and that he should remain in a ‘Goodly’ position. The broken man reached out compassionately, not wanting this godly man to feel bad about himself!

But the figure in white just grunted as he looked back at the broken man now in a foetal position. Almost tripping over his shiny black shoes, he disappeared in the distance, leaving a trail of citrus in the air of his wake.

The man, still on the side of life, was trying to make sense of the communication that had passed between them when another passerby came along. This person was someone he had known in the past. Yet he was not all he seemed. His outward appearance was good, even beautiful, but he was ruthless and took a callous amusement from seeing the suffering of others. He was an opportunist disguised as help. He offered his overtly ringed hand, and with a snidey smirk on his face, he leaned forward with intent.

“Can I help you up?” he said, oozing charm. You look like you could do with a hand. You don’t have to answer, just asking……. " He paused briefly and looked directly into the man's eyes……I know exactly what will make you better,” he said cunningly.

But this passerby had only selfish interests at heart. He could see a way to exploit the man for his own gain. To use his gullibility and weakness to his benefit. On the promise of help, he could have the man enslaved to his every whim and wish. The broken man, now on the side of life, was once quite brilliant. He had accumulated many skills in life. He was a talented computer coder, photographer and graphics artist. The passerby was aware of the man’s skills and knew he could benefit from an exchange between them.

The man was very tempted to cooperate with the seemingly benevolent passerby. He vaguely remembered that there may have been some goodness in him. At this point, he would have done nearly anything to relieve his suffering.

Looking away for a moment, he silently prayed. He prayed for help, wisdom and good judgement as he had lost all sense of his own ability to analyse a situation accurately and in a way that would effectively improve his circumstances and elevate him from the side of life. But while he was praying, the Passerby grew impatient and went on his way. He could not be bothered to help the man get well and realised that in order to exploit the man and gain from his skills, he would first have to help the man up from the side of life, and he wasn’t prepared to put in that kind of effort.

Opposite the man, in shack, in a field of long grass surrounded by a fallen down dry-stone wall partly hidden by brambles and stingers, lived a timid and kindly stranger who had been through life himself and had learnt much by way of compassion and empathy.

He had been observing the broken man, the passersby, the figure in white, and the good-looking person. And seeing the broken mans distress, he wondered if he could be a listening ear. He was not, in himself, able to help the man from the side of life. He was poor and without resources; no one ever noticed him, but he could listen to the man, and maybe by listening, he could enable the broken man to release some of the pain through an exchange of humanity and understanding. He wondered modestly if he may in some way impart some strength to the man, and that the broken man may then be able to help himself.

The shy, gentle stranger slowly approached the broken man and as he looked up he smiled genuinely and quietly said...

“How are you feeling? Can I offer you a coffee? Would you like to talk?”

Of course, this is a question many people ask each other, but it’s a rare occasion that the inquisitor wants to hear the response.

The broken man up; visible tears filled his eyes as he started to speak, and the gentle stranger listened.

(Who was the good person...? We often see titles, wealth and attractiveness as inherently good. But do those things actually make a person good?)

Story to be continued…