this old man

This old man. The enemy. The colonist. The rapist. The rampager. The destroyer. The death monger. The death cult leader. The most horrible thing you could imagine — no feelings at all.

This “person” has no qualms about putting people right off their own land. He relishes the opportunity, it makes him feel good. He’s old and unhealthy. I can see him so clearly — his skin is at once puffy and flaky. His skin is so dry … his lips are parched. He tries to moisten himself — he lifts a cup of wine to his dry old mouth. He swallows — yes, he can still do that. He can still manage that. But it doesn’t moisten him at all. It just leaves him as dry as before.

His skin is a weird shade, like a pale gray. The puffiness makes him look kind of disgusting. Like he hasn’t bathed in centuries. But he just bathed. He bathed, he dried off … and he looks like he’s never bathed. (bear with me — this is much kinder than you think … keep reading)

When he swallows it’s like his body is rejecting the food but he’s forcing it down. On closer inspection a person like me can see the internal problems and issues. I always can. His liver is failing. His kidneys are failing. He’s dying. But he’s been dying for such a long time. It seems never-ending. This dying. What a nightmare for any person to live through.

He used to enliven himself by taking the lives of others. He would …not saying what he would do. He would do awful things, he figured were necessary for him to stay alive. He doesn’t do those things anymore.

He’s an old, defeated man.

You can tell his liver is failing by the colour of his skin. He also has gout. That’s the crystally white little polkadot patches all over his skin. The gout has made so many crystals throughout him, that it’s all over his skin. He can’t wash that off. The puffiness of his face is from the kidney failure. Also, the grayish white pallor has a yellow cast to it, in certain light. About light — he avoids it. He has lamps all over his house, dim lamps — and the curtains are always drawn. He rarely goes outside. When he does, he frightens little children with his dying appearance.

This has begun to hurt him, the fact that he scares kids. Before, he could put an entire family right off of their farmland — no issue, no qualms, no guilt — no remorse — no feelings at all. Not even vague regret, like “I really hate that I have to do this to you” — none of that. He would feel none of it. At some point he started to have feelings. He fell in love with somebody. He pined for her. He moped around. He wanted to protect her. He wanted her to himself. He wanted her to be safe, but that need of his made her very unsafe indeed. He finally realized that and he backed off — and so within him, were borne actual feelings.

The feelings have made him miserable however. He thinks back to the things he has done. He thinks back to the faces of the people who he’s tortured .. he is haunted by that now. So he wants it all to end.

He had organ donors all lined up — he’s been carefully cultivating donors for some time now, waiting for them to get big enough to have their own organs carved out, and put into his body. He thought he wanted to live forever. Now he realizes — no way. Now that he has feelings, no way does he want to live anymore. It’s too much! Too much pain. Too much pain he’s caused. The faces of his victims haunt him constantly.

I just see this man … in his dark home … trying to have a meal. It isn’t peaceful for him. His hands shake. His lips tremble. He feels guilt. He hates guilt but he can’t seem to do anything about it. He could never confess to anybody what he’s done, the things he’s done. All of his “soldiers” are dead, long gone now. He killed them, had them killed, because of what they knew. And this also haunts him. He can see their faces as well, in their final moments … he can barely stand it.

Picture this old guy …. yellow-gray, swollen, at the end of his life — still trying to have a dignified meal at his table. Trembling, shaking. Knowing the end is near.

All he wants is forgiveness. He just wants to die feeling “clean”. That’s all he wants. His collection of victims scream from the otherworld, from their dead states — “NO he deserves nothing! He’s a monster! He’s an animal! Don’t you give him a thing. He deserves to die like a pig, he deserves to die like the monster he is. Don’t forgive him — he doesn’t deserve it.”

I picture that I’m there, in his dining room. I just appeared there. It’s magic. His eyes turn to me sadly — his eyes say, “I also victimized you, to try and save myself. I did things to you when you were not aware.” He doesn’t say “I’m sorry”. He just informs me of the facts. He waits.

His hands shake. He lifts his glass to his dry mouth. His eyes begin to glaze over — it appears to be near the end.

He doesn’t speak a word, but his eyes ask me — “Will you clean me? Please.” He pushes his chair back from the table weakly, but still with authority — longstanding habit of his. He sticks out his legs. His feet are bare. They are filthy. He just had a bath. Yet those feet are completely filthy, scabby. He has open sores on his feet — he must also have diabetes then. He kind of moves his ankle back and forth — it’s hard to move it. It creaks. He curls his toes painfully. Then he just looks at me flatly. Just flat — expressionless.

His eyes are wordlessly saying, “I don’t expect anything from you. I just wanted you to know what I’ve done. I figure that’s the best I can do, to die clean. See my feet? I am in constant agony from that. This is why I can’t leave the house. No shoes will fit me — they all hurt. I can barely walk. I just wanted you to see that. I will die in pain. I wanted you to know. I’m sure that a person like me. Can’t be cleaned for death. I didn’t deserve it. I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

I say wordlessly back to him, “I read in a book somewhere, that anyone who asks for a clean death is allowed to have it. Anyone who asks for redemption before they die is supposed to be allowed to have it. I read this somewhere. So — I’m here. I’ll do it.”

I go over to his kitchen and there’s a basin near the sink. I fill it with warm water. There are soap flakes there — waiting for me — just in case. He had laid it out just in case, without much hope that I would be willing to use it. I pour in the soap flakes — the water bubbles up. It smells nice. I hear a noise — like a choking sound.

I turn around and he is weeping. His whole body is shaking. He’s shaking so violently that the table is bouncing off the floor — bang bang bang.

I almost can’t do this — but somehow, for some reason, he picked me to do it. I have no idea why — am I this person he fell in love with? Wow — that is NO compliment at all. For a moment I feel violated again. Then I shake it off.

There is no way I could leave this man in this condition. Who could? I bet that nobody could. I square my shoulders and get to work.

Find a towel. A clean towel — oh look. He or someone on his behalf also laid that out. For me. For him.

I can’t lift that basin. Too heavy. So I push it over with my foot. Then I just look at him.

He gets up slowly and walks into his bedroom. Before he crosses the doorway he looks back at me — his eyes ask me “Is this OK with you? In here? I’d like to die in here please.” I nod.

He goes in and he sinks down into his bed. He’s still weeping. But not soundlessly. Just tears streaming down his face. In the streaks of those tears his skin looks better — younger, more elastic. Oh no! No! He can’t come back to life! That’s not what he wants. He can’t cope with the guilt and he wants to go.

I reach over and wipe his cheeks, and then the skin there is old and puffy again. This is what he wants.

He lies there silently weeping. I wash his feet. I try to be gentle with all those sores.

He dies. Finally.

Victims would be angry. I know. But I couldn’t help myself. I had to do it — how could he be denied? Any human being deserves this — even the worst. That’s the only answer. Cleansing.

Who was he?