Contrition

by Aidan Aboud

A man sat alone on a hill, under a quaking aspen, groaning from the weight of his skin. With his back to the tree, he was able to rest from the weight of his folds, but even as he rested, sweat dripped down the side of his face, and soaked his clothes. His wrinkles were filled with fat, and large after their many years of existence, created by an inescapable habit that he had developed at a much younger age. But after all of those years, he was dying.

“Why did I lie?” He spoke to the air, begging it to respond. “All those years ago, when the devil sat on my shoulder, why did I give in?” Tears dripped from his eyes, joining with his sweat. “Am I to die here? Is this to be my final resting place, where everyone who passes by takes one glance and knows my whole?” He shook as he lifted his arm, weakly pointing at the sky. “You put me here! In this chalice of life, I, with reckless abandon, chose death.” He breathed heavily for a moment. “Take me back! Please! You know I cannot admit it. There is no one around to speak to.”

The clouds above him continued to move, unabated, as the sun slowly came to its peak, and the heat of the day poured down on the man. Shaking, moving to escape the burning rays of the sun, he pulled his legs under him and made to stand, but, unable to gain a hold on the curved trunk of the Aspen tree, fell, rolling down the hill. His shirt, ripped and stained, showed his skin, cut and raw, through its gaps, almost looking as if it were trying to separate itself from the man’s body. He smiled and frowned in quick succession, a crazy, heat driven light flaring in his eyes. The sun burned his flabby folds and blistered his skin, as he lay there, in silent agony.

A chuckle escaped his red lips, joining the sweat and tears that continued to soak his clothes. “My, my, my, what have we here?” He examined the grass, grasping at the dull blades. “It's so green, so vivid.” He returned his attention to the sky. “What are you trying to say!” His words were a harsh, guttural scream that exploded from his throat. “Why?! Why is anything at all?!” His face was red like a ripe tomato, burning in pain and desperation. “If I am here, and you are there, what stops you from saving me? Why is it so below you, to reach down, and help me up?” He once again pulled at the grass, ripping it from the ground. “If all life is precious, why don’t you stop me?!”

He again ripped at the grass, tearing it to shreds. He kicked at the ground near him, flailing his body in all directions, creating a small shower of dirt. He flailed continually, for nye a minute, until his anger ran out, and once more, he was alone. His tears returned, in an even greater flow, and his sweat, having saturated his clothes, coated the grass beneath him like a trail of mucus. He sobbed, feeling his pulse quicken and his heart race. His breath now came in gasps, quick and stilted, like the braying of a donkey, or the swing of a door in rain. He could feel the heat of the sun burning his flesh, and the scruple moisture his body now provided did nothing to ease his pain.

Suddenly, through the red haze of his vision, he saw movement. A quick flash of color, and the flapping of wings. Hope rose in his chest, giving him the energy to roll himself over, and gain a glimpse of the sky. Against the deep blue, the source of his hope shone. A butterfly, red and white, hung suspended above his face. He grinned, smiling at the sky, and opened his mouth to speak.

It was this moment that saved him. As the land around him fell silent, he spoke. He told the butterfly of his sins, his grievous sins, and the lies that held him back. He told it of everything he knew he had done, and more, and as he did so, the wrinkles and folds that burdened him seemed to melt away. The sun still burned, and the sky still lay above it all. But his pain was gone. It felt to him as if he were a new man. The folds had receded, and his skin looked as new. Once more he could move, and lift himself from the ground. And the butterfly, having listened to his speech, flew off, carried by the wind. He smiled, and stood, looking around. His grin grew in size, and he jumped freely, calling out to the sky. The sky, with its whispery voice, called back. It reached out to him with its wispy hands and the man skipped across the ground in a circle. Having forgotten the coat of sweat, he landed in it, skidded, slipped, and broke his neck.