A Tongue is no less than a Hand to Murder
I was roaming around a park before my meeting, where I had arrived so early because of my exquisite dread of being late, or rather, even of not being early. It was a very significant meeting for my career as a sales analyst since one of the high-level directors from the firm I work for was attending so that my presentation could make me leap a few steps together ahead in my career. That’s why I was as sharp as one could be, and rehearsing the outline of my words over and over again while I was strolling around the park. I planned to leave for the plaza where I work, which is just a 5-minute walk away. That’s when I saw a man who digressed me from my ambivalence of apprehension and hope. A young man, but as though he’d lived for a few centuries. A poor young man… His state was obtrusive through his patched and torn clothes, and his apparent idleness, but he was behaving as if he had all the wealth in the world. I wonder if Mr. Hasoğlu, the director who shall decide my fate, had the same level of confidence regardless of all the great things he had accomplished in his fairytale-like career. Had I been in his position, I could’ve even secured a CEO position at a slightly smaller company. Just think about the pride your children would have when they’re able to show off their fathers’ job as the head of a respected company. While I was lost in thoughts, daydreaming, I realized that my gaze was perpetually fixed on the man. The subject of my daydreaming was the poor young man again. Alas, he doesn’t even seem like a punk. He is still so young. I guessed he was around my age. I thought to myself, “I pity you, young man”. I supposed I accidentally imparted my thoughts aloud because I heard my voice. I guessed my lack of self-control stemmed from my anxiety. Then I heard it again, “I pity you” this time louder. This time it was not me; frankly, the first time was not me either. That whacked young man was the one, and he was speaking to me. What now, pity is a favour that all of us are supposed to reciprocate, even the poorest of us? Then I would reciprocate him with the same bluntness, in spite of my initial empathy for him. I replied:
-You? You pity me? You are in no shape to feel anything for people, whatever emotion it may be let alone pity, other than yourself. You should beseech my money to eat a thing or two.
Then he said
-I live a life of my desires, you work to fulfill a prophecy others designed for you. You are imprisoned in a suit, and working for the hope of an artificial better whole your life. You are a cog of a car engine that resets to its initial position in every turn, till this endless motion scatters you apart, just to make the spectacle of the car’s owner change, a spectacle that you won’t ever see. That’s not even the worst part, you are just so oblivious you don’t see the situation you are enclosed. You are the bird who thinks it is free because the cage it’s in is not made out of metal, but a transparent glass that enables it to see the world it has no reach…
I succumbed and stated
-I have too many things you don’t. What good is freedom if you’re not able to wear the suits I wear, earn the money I earn, eat the food I eat, have the acclaimed career which I hopefully will have, drive the car I drive… And the list goes on to eternity
-What makes you think you yourself will and want the things you counted? They’re the things considered— by others— to be valuable. Why are you so impuissant as to not create a world of your own, as the one created by others is as arbitrary as yours will be, where my patched clothes are the signs of nobility, moneylessness is a wealthy virtue, the leftover food I find near fast-food restaurant cluster is the meal of the kings, having the most independence from a wicked system is the most acclaimed career, walking on your feet is a signifier of your power and self sufficiency-the feet you won’t use over long distances inasmuch as you don’t have two or three prisons to and from which you commute… And the list goes to eternity
-What do you think was the reason you called out to me in the first place? Just sit and think this to yourself, whilst you set not caring for me, a stupid bigot, to be a great virtue too. You didn’t, however, choose to do so, did you? You want someone to know you’re there. You want to impart your existence and independence. The human instinct craves the approval of a respected multitude more than the impossible prospect of freedom. What is it that you’re so obsessed with freedom? Freedom was never a real thing. Let you be alone in a secluded world of your own, you’re still imprisoned by your desires and willing, if not by a suit. You are not serving for the contempt of a proprietor above you, maybe, but you still serve for the satisfaction of brutal instincts of your own. I am pleasantly down to be belittled in the name of fulfilling my Darwinian prophecy, designed by evolution—if you call that some other.
The young man was bewildered by my words. It seems that it was quite unwonted for him to be taken seriously enough to be answered to his cliche arguments. He says independence to me, hah! It seems that when one wants to believe in something, or maybe is in a sect, one can create whatever asinine argument one wants in order to justify oneself. The young man was a typical example. I was exultant, and he was bewildered. Then he started to moan in pain as if he was undergoing an excruciating torment. There was nothing at all, no reason at all why this man was emitting all his lungs out. He started to cough up blood, and his situation was exacerbated by every second. I was swift to run directly to him. Despite my support, he couldn’t even erect his body because of the iterated and ever getting frequent coughs he is caught. This is above me. I should’ve called the ambulance already. Where was my phone, though? Blood coming out of him made me red all over, he was throwing all his mass at me. Literally, he was getting smaller too. Whatever was his case, I never saw anything resembling this. He would vanish if it continued this way. My phone, my phone… Not in the pants’ pocket, not in the coat’s pocket. There was nobody around, I had to be fast. Instantly I opened and poured all there was in my bag. The damn phone was not there either! The man was in no shape to walk to a hospital nearby. I turned my back to the man, thinking about what I could do. I was as desperate as the man while thinking. He has gotten older by at least 20 years just by coughing, his face has borne every single misery of this vacuous creation, and his lungs have breathed the smoke of every burning love. I realized I hadn’t looked at the inner pocket of my coat yet. And yes, it was there. I took a long yet refreshing breath and turned back to the man with the phone in my hand. The man has gone. He was not there. He couldn’t have moved on his own—there was no way. Nobody could have taken him, I’d hear it, and there was nobody around. I looked at my right hand, supposing I should have let somebody know these. No, what is in my hand is not my phone, what’s in my hand is a knife—blood on the tip, spittle on the handle…
I’m dizzy, I don’t know. Did I dream? Whatever. Mr Hasoğlu must have already been waiting for me, it’s been 20 minutes, I should now go with striding steps, this is going to be my day.
