The Lonely Man

He goes this way and that, ever searching.  Much like a branch swaying in the breeze, he sways but holds fast to his heart.  He holds it close to his chest, clutching it tightly.  No man ever had such a selfish liking for his own heart.  I watched as he walked by, paranoid and jittery.  As many gave him dirty looks and cursed his existence, I gave in to pity for the man.  He walked by like this every day, passing my shop ad pleading aloud,

 

“Don’t touch it!  Don’t touch my heart!”

 

The next night, I had a dream about that man.  He cried out his usual verse, but the look in his eyes struck me.  He had poisoned eyes, yellow and sick.  He shuffled more than walked, and his head wagged back and forth, panicked that anyone might so much as reach out for his heart.  I awoke then, sobbing.  If only the man could have a whole heart, un-diseased and fully functioning! 

 

The next day, I stopped him as he walked by my shop.  He yelled at me not to touch his heart, but I couldn’t resist.  With the power of his grief and agony hanging over me, I reached out and slid my fingers around his lukewarm, half-beating heart.  Instantly it became cold in my hands, and I shrank back in wonder.  What had I done? 

 

The man stared at me in dismay, and then his eyes filled with tears.  He walked away then, but I will never forget that face�"eyes forlorn and filled with tears, mouth agape in shock.  I called after him to come back, but he only hurried onward.  I retreated into my shop, and found that nothing seemed as it had been.  The man’s heart had been poison, and had poisoned my own.  I was lonely.

 

When he walked by again, he made his way on the other side of the street.  His heart had gone a stone grey.  Had I taken the last bit of life he’d had?  The life of my own heart was quickly ebbing away.  I felt the hardening begin, bit by bit.  I didn’t care for this man anymore.  I could barely care for myself. 

 

As the days went by, my joy grew less and less, until I barely felt any at all.  The man stopped walking by, and I later learned he was dead.  I visited his grave, but felt no shame.  I had killed this man.  For a brief moment, I wondered how long this cycle had taken place.  How many lives were taken by this reckless poison?   I myself had forsaken all that I had once held dear.

 

 

I walk the streets now, every day.  This way and that I wander, but I clutch my heart tightly to my chest.  It has no meaning to me, but I know it will take away every meaning from anyone else.  So I warn them not to touch it, with raspy voice and frantic gaze.  I warn everyone I see or meet to stay away.  I do not know how long this will go on.  I am the lonely man.  

Author's Note

what do you think of this?

Reviews

[quinfinn]

whew...this is so deep! the metaphorical implications of this story are still resonating through my psyche. you have crafted a superb and rather macabre tale here, almost in the fashion of my fave writer, Edgar Allen Poe, however, you have embellished it with your own twisted angles. i think this now owns a spot on my favorites, Siren!

[Siren]

Your words make me giddy. I often forget what I've written, so I always enjoy commentary on my older work. Thanks so much, quinny!