The Poor Man and the Master

All the children can hear him scream. He’s the shunned one. An outcast from society. No one cares, at all. He’s shackled up, limbs so boney you can already make him out to be a skeleton. The metal cuffs around his wrists are tight with vengeance, bringing to you a horrible sight; blood runs in crimson streams down his arms, outstretched above his head, chained to a wall with guilt.

But you cannot see this. The Master won’t allow you to look at the wounds, the scars, the open gashes. He wants you to look into the man’s eyes and feel the pain and horror; he wants you to look past the shield covering the man’s face and body. This man, he’s in a metal body. Nothing but verbal pain escapes. The metal encloses his gaunt body, starved of happiness.

And the Master is content with this. The people in the village are happy with this. They do not care enough to look past the metal exterior, to dig and pry and prod to find the horror and disgust trapped inside this metal casing. And perhaps one cared enough to try? The Master would not let them.

The village sees this metal casing; it is shiny, attractive. It shows brilliance and interest, intelligence, personality. But the village does not see the eyes; they are too distracted by the metal, the glamor, the splendor.

This Poor, Poor Man… The Master has enslaved him, does not feed him. The Poor Man hates the Master, and does not take food anyways. Nor does he take advice, or help, or counsel. The Poor Man is angry at the world for overlooking the painful gaze of his eyes to focus on the metal. The undented metal. Words slip past his conscience, the emotion blocked eternally away. If this Poor Man cared nothing of what people thought, his voice would be flat, monotonous. Filled with nothing but numbness.

Once upon a time, a girl decided to peer into the eyes of the man, and found nothing but deep, red, raging turmoil, relentless; the fangs had already taken a stranglehold into the spirit. His spirit is rotting, decaying; there is no hope left at all. This girl tried to heal, tried to reach into the soul of the man who so desperately needed her love… Sooner or later she chipped away a small piece, and held it, broken in her hands, malodorous and bleeding. Beneath was a great beauty, filled with character and love. Before she knew what was happening, greed and hate spread like vines to cover the hole she had made, locking the Poor Man once again out of her reach.

Alas. She could not get past the metal to heal the rotten and stinking core. She tried, day and night, showing her love, teaching him things he had never known could bring such enjoyment. She fought and fought to pull away the armor as she had done before.

“You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. This shell still remains for a reason. No one can stand the sight, the smell, the torturous look of the injuries I have… they’ve gone unhealed and untreated for too long, without medicine, without care. And now, they will infect all who try to help,” said the Master.

The girl was determined to pick the Poor Man up, to help him, to heal him.

“I can handle this. You’ve told me all that has happened, let me take the cover off and heal him so we can be one…”

“You were not there. You did not see. You did not feel. You did not hear. You didn’t. You cannot handle this. It will only bring you down with him…”

The Master shut down the Poor Man, locked him up, binding his arms and legs back to place. Back to the vague, obscure look he keeps plastered on his face, a guard from questions. Every now and then he lets it slip, to show that he is human. To see who cares, and who is just nosey. But only every now and then does he scream and cry for help. Only when he can stand the torture no longer.

His Master only allows him to give advice; to act, to care, to love. But not to be cared for or to be loved. The Master has channeled the emotions and is very analytical, very rational. The Poor Man strives to be more, strives to break free from the shell; but the Master whips him when such a thought is brought to mind.

The village still lives happily, still only paying attention to the metal casing… The Master is a good person, a kind and gentle soul to others and not himself. Not the Poor Man that lurks at the back of his mind. He keeps the man chained back there, for the safety of the village, for the sanity of his family.

This Master is a Poor Man, and Poor Man a Master.