Under Editing

It’s evening. Today, Mr. Reis had plans to leave work and not go back to his aunt’s house. He wanted to pass by Bellaville’s emptiest park to start his next work: Write. And here he is!

But Kowahn walks around the park with a certain feeling surrounding his heart. His internal guidance announces something is going to happen. He couldn’t write a single word yet. He doesn’t know when ‘this’ will happen, so he put his laptop back into his white backpack and now waits while walking around carefree.

His mind is empty and his soul appreciates the nature around with full investment. He is enjoying this moment as if it is the only one: And it is. His innate wisdom always remembers him that the present is the only ‘time’ that exists. Actually, he believes that future and past, and the time itself, don’t exist. These concepts are illusions created by the memories of the past and the creations humans imagine for the future. For him, this moment is the only thing everyone is and everything has.

And that’s why humans rarely enjoy what they have. Because they live for what doesn’t exist, he theorizes.

Living for this moment means to master of the only thing one can possess on Earth: Self-control. This domain leads Kowahn to have a variety of options to choose from, and he picked the alternative that believes in himself, which means he is staying in this park until his soul stops tugging him to remain here.

Five, ten, thirty minutes went by quickly as Kowahn meditated before the nature. The serene sounds relieved his ears until loud voices yelled in a savage conversation. Hurtful words unleashed in sequence and accusative phrases cut through his heart like a knife, almost making Kowahn cry at such violence. It is a man and a woman’s voice, and they come from the house on the other side of the road.

He turns his head in said direction. Loud verbal fighting is still ongoing. Why do people choose to yell instead of choosing to talk and listen? He frowns in sadness and walks to a public bench where he sits and picks from his backpack a white hearing protector.

He puts it on. Ahh. And closes his eyes, relaxing. Finally, the hurtful noises are smoothed to the minimum.

This is a challenge that comes to him. What will he choose now? He still feels a need to stay at this place.

< Someone help me… > Kowahn opens his eyes at this voice that reaches him. Who is this? It sounds… like a child’s voice. < Someone help me… Someone help me… Someone help me… >

The voice repeated that over and over. Kowahn feels an urge to do something. What can he do, though? Where is it coming from? Who is it? Why are they talking to him?

Maybe he should talk back. < Greetings, friend. I’m Kowahn. What’s your name? >

Silence. Seconds after, it answers, < Hello… >

< Hello, > Kowahn smiles, although the other can’t see him.

<… Who are you? >

< Kowahn. >

< Who is Kowahn? >

< The person you’re talking to, > The indigenous chuckles.

<… Please help me. My parents are fighting… again. I can’t deal with this anymore. My ears are sensible, but they fight every day… I hate fightings. I really hate when they are like this. I don’t want to be here anymore… I don’t want to witness my parents fighting… I don’t want to be here… Please, ‘Kowahn’, please help me…! >

The man outside inhales, thoughtful. He looks at the house from where the verbal fightings are coming from. So there is a child behind those doors…

Maybe knocking and chit-chatting with the parents is a good option? Would they listen? Well, he could try. Or could he wait until it all went down? Or could he just walk away?

He could do everything. He could even try.

< ‘Kowahn’, > The child’s voice calls out to him again, < Are you still there? Please, don’t leave me! Don’t leave me like my parents do… I hate being left alone. I want them to see me… I’m hurting. It hurts me when they are fighting. It hurts my ears when they are talking loudly. It hurts me to be the one who makes them fight… They fight because of me. Because I am such a useless boy. Dad says I am the wrongest thing that happened in his life. I have tried to be a better son. But I still couldn’t become that, because he keeps telling me I’m a ‘useless kid’… >

Kowahn is tearing up. This child is going through hard times. He needs help. These parents… are they really worried about their son’s health?

< They can’t see that it hurts me when they fight. They can’t notice that I’m hurting. They don’t notice the pain I feel… Do you understand how I feel, Kowahn? Do you understand? > His voice is cracking. He is sad. Sad.

< Invisible, > Kowahn answers. That’s how this child feels. Kowahn knows this because… he has felt like this before. That’s how he felt when he lived in the streets. No one saw him. No one noticed him. No one realized his pain. No one wanted to take care of him. No one cared. < You feel invisible. >

< You really understand me… > The boy’s voice shows a sign of hope. < If you know how I feel, please, ‘Kowahn’, help me…! >

Mr. Reis is so immersed in the conversation that he connects with the boy. He starts to feel everything the boy is feeling. All the sadness, all the low self-esteem, all the self-hatred, all the… want to cry. To scream. To cover his ears with something functional, something that isn’t his hands. To dig a hole and set his head inside only to muffle all this… violence! To make it stop!

Make it stop! Make it stop! Make it stop!

Kowahn can’t take it. It’s too much. All of what this child is feeling isn’t right. Isn’t needed! A child should never go through this. A child should never experience low self-esteem, self-hatred, such a profound sadness, or the will to disappear.

And the most… a child should never experience pain to the point they develop a death drive, like this boy…

He didn’t notice before, but tears are rolling from his eyes for a while now. Kowahn cries for the boy. He connected with this sadness, that isn’t his.

< Are you still there? > The boy asks, desperate by the prolonged silence.

< I’m on my way, > Kowahn finally decides.

He chooses to try. Even at the possibility of failure.

He won’t know if he doesn’t try.

Kowahn stands up and walks towards the two-way road. Holy universe. What is he about to do?

‘I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know…’, he panics, although his body keeps moving. ‘I just can’t let… this boy go through any more of this! Please, dear Universe, illuminate my choices. I have chosen this path. Please help me get the best outcome of it’, he pleads to the cosmos.

His steps stop before the road. He looks to right, then left, then crosses it. ‘Oh my Milky Way. Where am I going? Do I have the right to interfere in someone else’s way of raising their child? What exactly am I going to say?’. His heartbeats grow louder inside his chest. Wait, he can even hear them now!? He can feel his heart pounding stronger, and in wider extensions. It feels like it smacks at his throat. For a moment, he feared it would come out through his mouth. ‘Please, dear guardian angel. Instruct me. Guide me. Protect me through these moments’.

He arrives on the other side. The house is a few meters away. Kowahn walks until he is in front of its door.

His mind is blank now, great the is fear possessing his senses. He breathes in deeply and prepares his knuckles to touch the wood.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Slow, but firm, the knocks call the attention of the insiders. Their voices’ stop. The man inside comes to open the door. When it opens, an angry expression is on his features. But Kowahn isn’t able to see that. What he sees, at first, is a dark miasma emanating from the soul he faces.

It is unfortunate others can’t see what he can. If they could, people would be conscious of what their thoughts, actions and feelings produce. Humanity would shock at what they make.

At what they choose to fabricate.

“What do you want, stupid outsider? Didn’t you hear we were busy?”, and crosses his arms.

The man looks intimidating. He is tall, strong, and seems ready to fight whenever. Kowahn, on the other side, though strong too, is slender, less tall and wears a pleasant peaceful expression.

Kowahn opens and shows the palms of his hands in a honouring gesture. “Greetings,” he smiles.