The candle’s weak light reflected on the worn walls, flickering like an abandoned soul.
A robust wind slammed the broken window, burned the flame out. Rokah stood up, facing the cold air, trying to close the sash, when he glimpsed a black entity walking alone in this freezing weather. He forgot what he was doing and stared with curiosity…
A scene identical to a droplet of ink sliding off, leaving a trace of its fleeting existence on a white paper.
The black entity advanced at a slow pace, fighting the wind and the pile of snow with unbalanced steps. it aimed for balance by using a cane and that made it clear for an observer to spot the injury or the deformity in its right leg, even from this distance.
The raven’s long coat got trimmed by the snowflakes, and the long dark hair frisk with the wind, giving it the appearance of a lost ghost.
Rokah could not see its face, but the direction the lost ghost had chosen to follow drew a sad image.
The curiosity in his eyes transformed into something else, something blended with concern and glimmered like trembling light. A sudden urge to learn if his guess was right about the fate this ghost had chosen.
Rokah believed he was not a sentimental person, that he didn’t easily get swayed by emotions, but matters that touch the hidden part of his heart always reminded him of his blurry past and constantly proved him wrong.
In the end, he followed the lost ghost till the cliff, where he stood near the edge, meditating to the sound of the hollow waves made by the wind as it hit the rocks beneath.
It didn’t take long for this ghost before he started approaching the edge, at the same slow pace, as if he was responding to the prayer of an angel.
What was wrong with Rokah at that moment? Why did he care?… Fragments of foggy images flashed across his eyes like a forgotten dream. And without hesitation, he screamed out, piercing the thick layers of cold. It was as if there was somebody else inside him.
″ Sir!. … Sir… Can I draw you?”
Something like an illusion, and everything seemed out of this world. When he sat in front of the man with the appearance of a black ghost. Rokah placed a few sketches above a wooden table that shakes with every movement he made. He waited for the man to examine them, and for the fat lady with the pig-like face to bring them what they have ordered, which it didn’t take long.
Rokah found himself immersed in his observations of this person who didn’t resemble any anthropomorphic mongrel he had encountered in this village. It was a very rare sight here.
He thought to himself that maybe the animal parts of this man were in a more discreet place. But the elegance that surrounded the man’s demeanor, the smell of the jasmine that he emitted, and the tidy, clean style of his clothes gave Rokah a distinct impression related to grace and well-being.
He also detected the anemic paleness on his white face, and it puzzled him. Either this man had suffered from a long phase of malnutrition, or he had recent massive bleeding.
Rokah couldn’t decide given the normal, healthy way this lost ghost interacted.
The lesion in his right leg seemed from this close distance more like an ancient injury than a birth deformation. Rokah examined him while the man was examining the sketches in his hands with seriousness.
He was browsing through them one by one and Rokah could tell that this man must have weak eyesight from the way he handled the papers.
Then the man gazed at Rokah for seconds, trying to organize his thoughts about the personal intentions and the gains Rokah will collect from this unwelcome intrusion into his life. He nodded with understanding and said: “Are you a doctor?” Pointing his finger at the anatomical sketch of an open chest.
Rokah detected the relief in his voice, as if this ghost discovered the reason this unknown individual had called out to him.
A small curve formed on Rokah’s lips before he corrected this statement: “It depends on your definition of the word, but I never consider myself a doctor.”
The man didn’t cut the formed eye contact and asked with inquisitiveness while he put his joined hands under his chin: “You don’t consider yourself a doctor? Then, maybe you are an artist… Is that why you want to draw me?″
Of course, Rokah said that only to get the man’s attention and maybe to stop him from jumping into the depth of the uncertain valley. The reasons for him to interfere with this man’s life and death decision, he wondered himself because people attempting to kill themselves never interested him.
“You picked up my interest.” He answered. His voice showed some hesitation as he wasn’t very sure of this response and the man in front of him detected it.
“It must be very entertaining!… Does this enrich your feeling of heroism?” The man sounded calm despite the anger in his words.
” I considered it entertaining, capturing the essence of a man who decided to give up his own life, will have its charm on a white paper,” Rokah responded, starting to regret his unwanted interference.
“Even if you don’t know him, Even if you don’t know his reasons?” The man lost his first composure and the flow of his words sailed with anger and anguish.
“Death is one. Death doesn’t appreciate our trivial reasons,” Rokah answered. He was confident this time.
The man closed his eyes for a moment and said with a hoarse voice, reviling his unfathomable melancholy: “And life too.″
Rokah took an insightful gaze to the pale face in front of him, asking himself about those reasons that made this person sink so deep to the point where he was ready to end his life. He shifted around, observing all those anthropomorphic mongrels in the tavern, their deformed animal parts, ears, noses, tails, misshapen faces, and legs, struggling with their miserable lives. And this man looked better than them all.
Rokah sighed in objection: “No, life gives us choices.” then he stood up, trying to leave, regretting his intrusion. But he couldn’t deny the tread of resemblance between this man and himself. In the end, he was just like him, focusing only on things that he didn’t have while blaming life for the miseries he had created, and here he was, advising like he figured it all out.
The man watched him silently collecting the sketches, then he asked him before he left: “Why do you draw?”
“For a lot of reasons,” Rokah said, surprised at the detour of speech, his eyes wandered through the surrounding area, stealing glances at the mongrels near them: “I think, the most important reason is to mark my existence…” he paused then added: “Probably.”
A faint smile parted the man’s lips with a little burst of surprise. He mimicked Rokah’s glances and asked again, “Isn’t enough for you to know that you exist… at this moment? ″
“No, I am full of doubt.”
He closed his dark eyes again and gestured with his head up and down, signing the acceptance of the strange made-up request of Rokah.
In contrast, it came to Rokah that this person somehow liked the careless reply he gave. No, he liked this entire conversation.
He also guessed that this man’s suicidal attempt was an act of calling out for help. Perhaps he was calling for someone to stop him, to talk with him. And it looks like his wish got fulfilled.
How much pitiful these kinds of people are, Rokah pondered. How miserable they can be. He understood clearly how hard and destructive to seek aid and comfort from others.
The feeling of constraint, oppression, dismay, he recognized it all.
Right now, in Rokah’s heart, was born a vigorous urge to draw this abandoned soul.
