He seemed to have owned the same set of clothing for some time now. A ragged checked shirt hung loosely off his person, and the legs of his rough trousers ended a few centimetres above his ankles.
The vagrant shifted slightly from his position, and suddenly winced. Fumbling at the ground surrounding him, he felt a jagged stone to be the cause of the shooting pain. The muscles in his limbs tightened as he stretched his arm out, ready to throw the stone into the depths of the nearby pond. All of a sudden, however, he paused, slowly letting his arm drop back down to his side, still clutching the piece of rock tightly in his fist. It felt cold in his palm, seeming to give off a vibe of harshness and severity. Its texture was rough and its shape seemed strangely unnatural. It seemed perfectly cylindrical, but the head twisted crudely into a point- a very sharp point. The tramp lightly ran a coarse, leathery fingertip across the tip of that stone. Yes, it was certainly sharp enough. It was so easy. One stab…and he could end it all. His problems, his misery…they would all evaporate within minutes. To pierce one vital nerve- that was all it would take.
The edges of the old man’s lips curved gradually into a sliver of a smile- a shallow, mocking crescent. He laughed a small, mirthless laugh at the irony of it all. All those years ago, he had fought so hard for his son’s life. For months his son had hovered between the diverging realms of life and of death. His father had tried everything, willing him to hang on to that frail string that connected him to the mortal world. “He who does not hope to win has already lost,” he used to tell his son.
And now- he was ready to give away his own life so quickly.
The tramp toyed with this increasingly tempting idea. After all, it wasn’t like anybody would miss him. There wasn’t a soul that cared for him or even knew of his whereabouts, and he had no debts that he would have to clear. There was no reason not to carry out his decision.
The minutes passed by as the man wondered idly what would happen after this. Would he spend an eternity slaving away in the fiery empire of Satan? Was he destined for the splendour of the heavens? Or would he return to the earth later in a different form? Fantasies glided through his head…maybe he would be a rich man if he ever came back to earth…or maybe, in the worlds up there, maybe he would meet his beloved son again.
Once again, the tears pricked at his eyes.
The old man sensed that it was not long till the entrance of daylight. He should end it now. He sat up straight. As a final adieu, the blind man breathed in the scent of the night, fully immersing his senses in the atmosphere around him.
He felt the wind whipping his fading black locks behind his shoulders; he tenderly touched the harsh bark of a tree nearby. He wordlessly listened as the nightingales sang a sad, lilting melody, as if they understood the gravity of the moment.
Slowly, he tightened his grip on the stone in his fist, and gradually raised his arm higher. His muscles became taut as he prepared for the first strike. Memories flashed by in his head like an old motion picture. Just as he closed his eyes and reached the climax of his emotion… he heard a voice.
“Stop!” it cried. In surprise, the tramp loosened his grasp on the stone.
“Who is that?” he called. He felt a strange tingle down his spine. Surprisingly, he felt no fear. Instead, the tramp felt an unnatural veil of peace and calm descend upon him. The voice was young and fresh, and seemed to soothe the tramp’s troubled spirit. He wasn’t sure quite what it was, but there was something comforting about it.
“Don’t throw your life away,” the voice spoke again. It tone sounded firm yet tender. The old man thrust his hands forward, feeling for whoever was speaking. His fingers found only empty air. A velvety rustle was all he could hear. The voice spoke on, and once more, the tramp felt an overwhelming sense of déjà-vu. He had heard this pleasant voice before, somewhere.
“Are you really going to give up that easily?” the voice urged in a grave undertone. “I thought you saw life as a challenge. I never knew you would end it like this. Remember that fire that once drove you? Has it gone out so easily?”
“What do I have left? Nothing. What’s the point of my existence?” breathed the tramp, sounding detached now.
“It’s always possible to make something of your life…have you forgotten your art already? Those beautiful pictures you would paint?”
The tramp started in mild surprise. Yes, he had forgotten. It had been so long ago. He didn’t even know if he could hold a paintbrush anymore without his fingers trembling incessantly. A small smile formed on his face as he relived those days when he used to paint his feelings…
Colours, of course, had never mattered, since his lack of eyesight had prevented him from ever being able to appreciate them. But his brushstrokes would say it all. When in a bad mood, he’d take his fury out on his canvas, slashing angular streaks across it… but his shapes would fade into more rounded contours when he was happy. He would depict sadness as watery waves of misery. His paintings came alive; mesmerized viewers could read detailed stories into them. Once in a while, he would feel a sudden surge of frustration as he realized that he would never be able to set his eyes on his own work, but usually, merely the satisfaction of giving his blank canvas a character of his own was enough for him.
The tramp’s attention was jolted back to the present as the voice spoke again. Yet again, that gut feeling of familiarity came back. On hearing it speak, he felt…like he was back home, all those decades ago.
“He who does not hope to win has already lost. You taught me that, remember?” said the voice quietly.
***
The chandelier twinkled at the hundred expectant faces in the marble-floored room. One could hear the occasional clink of glasses, the occasional hushed whisper- but the noise simmered down as the young woman climbed onto the stage and tapped at the microphone.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I am pleased to announce that today, we are going to launch the second art exhibition of the eminent Mr. John Fisher- a man whose blindness did not prevent him from producing great masterpieces in oil.”
Fervent applause resonated throughout the hall.
