"Nothing more to say about the matter then. The Greek gods were total sons of bitches and four thousand years earlier, we humans are just like them." I nodded as I cleaned up the dishes of Mr Harold as he stood lounging on the couch taking a long drag off the cigarette in his hand.
I've taken care of a lot of aged folks in my time and every one of them had their stories to tell, yet none told it as good as Mr Harold.
"I mean look at what they did to Odysseus, Zeus and Poseidon literally tormenting him just for the fun of it. Let's not even talk about the story of Hephaestus. Rejected by his own family just because of the way he looked." He began coughing after that.
I rushed towards him with some water which he drank gratefully while I eyed the cigarette in his fingers.
No eighty year old is meant to be smoking, yet if I tried to pry it away from him he becomes hysterical and he is stronger than your average eighty or seventy year old man.
He took a breath after his coughs died down and began again.
"Yes. People are just as vile as the gods, for the way Zeus and Poseidon played with Odysseus the way the Olympians rejected their fellow god Hephaestus, that's how we humans play with ourselves. Disrupting the lives of those they have power over, rejecting those who are different.
Just being vile, evil bastards for no exact reason."
I watched him rant about the wrongs of humans and somewhat understood the pain he must've been feeling. He sometimes forgets about his misshapen leg, and all the pain and abuse he's gotten because of it. Yet there are some days like this when it's bad.
Some days he acts out in fits of rage, not angry at one person in particular, most likely because there are so many to count, so he's angry at the full human race.
I looked at the time and breathed a sigh of relief as the clock told me just 30 minutes left for my shift.
He was a pain to look after when he's like this, a wet cold thorny blanket through and through.
"What do you think, James? Is there any hope for the human race?" I was taken aback for a moment.
He never wanted to hear my input on days like this, and in actuality it's not like he was wrong, just maybe a bit exaggerated.
He was genuinely waiting for my answer, even turned over so he could look at me. So I licked my lips and thought of my next few words carefully.
"I do think that humans are some of the worst, yet not all humans are bad, you and I know this. I feel in the absence of all, hope is the only thing one can have." Immediately I regretted what I said.
Not knowing if it'll further continue his hating spree or change it, I waited for his reaction.
He simply turned over and rested back on the couch with his head facing the ceiling. He stayed quiet for some minutes and I got myself comfortable on the adjacent couch, thinking and hoping he had dozed off.
"I do remember those times on the streets. The years before my luck changed. Back then when all I had was my name and a sheer desire that my life wouldn't be like the other unfortunate folks who I saw everyday.
I tried my hardest, worked even harder than those who were better off, just to get rejected because I didn't look right.
Hard to fit the brand when you're in crutches. The way people looked at me, the way some whispered and averted their gazes."
I noticed him squeezing his hands. I couldn't imagine what it must have been like. He carried on.
"Then when I finally did have a job. The way people acted around me, the bullies who made life harder for me just because they could, the fools who laughed, the bigger fools who thought they were keeping their hands clean by not doing anything.
I hate them. I hate them all."
It was hard to not notice the bile in his voice as he spoke. I felt myself shiver at the intense hatred.
"Before I hated all humans, yet as fate would have it I can't survive without them and I disagree to curl up and die.
That's the reason why I employed you."
He laughed a bit.
"I had initially planned to make your life as miserable as they made mine, but you didn't deserve it and it seems I just can't do it like they did. As you said, not all humans are vile, and while looking at you I do believe that there is hope."
The clock struck six then and it was time for me to take my leave. It was Friday and normally I'd be in a rush to leave but something was off.
He didn't look normal, the atmosphere was different.
"You alright Mr. Harold?" I asked, unsure if I should go.
"I'm calm James. Just a little bit tired, you can go now."
That's how I left and came back to his lifeless body on Monday. The doctor's found no obvious cause of death and passed it off as just a peaceful passing in his sleep.
I knew for sure that it was truly peaceful. I noticed the now off cigarette on the floor, the same one he was smoking Friday night and laughed at the fact that like he said the cigarette wouldn't kill him.
He never started a blunt without finishing it.
So I lit it and put it at the windows, watching the smoke curl off from the lit end as the fire crept to the unlit end.
Later in the day, I got an email that I had been left as the sole owner of this house and his fortune. He didn't have any family and didn't particularly like anyone else.
I accepted the gifts with gratitude, yet I felt tears on my face and my heart was heavy because after over a year, just so suddenly, the weekly cigarette stories have come to an end.
Image of old man smoking was gotten from Pixabay and picture of cigarette on the windowsill was taken by my friend @jpg.muna
My Instagram page.
This story is an exceptional one
Nice to be here to read the lines
Thank you
This is a thought-provoking story, @seki1. You write both on the surface and also between the lines. I think you have a gift. It is very difficult for many writers to tell a story that does not follow a linear path and fill in every moment along the way. As a reader I am left with questions about the gods, and how these featured so prominently in Mr. Harold's reality. How is he both tormented by his own physical challenges and the pain and suffering of the gods and their own bullies? Yet it doesn't diminish the story that there are no answers to those questions.
In other words, I admire your writing style. It tells a complete story, but gives readers plenty of space and opportunity to fill in any blanks with their own ideas and imaginations.
That said, Mr. Harold refers to the narrator as both John and James. What is his true name? 😄
John James?😂😂😭
It's actually James.
I thought I double checked to make sure I didn't write John anywhere 😭😂😂
Thanks for the comment though 🥹🔥♥️
There isn't actually a relationship between the gods and Mr Harold, it's meant to showcase his delirious views of life that spawned from hate and a rather obverse effect of the nicotine 😂
He's a complex character, he hates all humans, especially himself because he can't reciprocate the hate he's received from the past.
@seki1, please remember to engage with at least two other writers in The Ink Well for each story you publish, by reading and commenting on their stories. (Not doing so affects the curation level of your work.)
Sorry about that...
Offline life has been tough😔
@seki1, I paid out 0.234 HIVE and 0.050 HBD to reward 2 comments in this discussion thread.