It was one miserable rainy night, perhaps the most miserable of all nights in all of his fifty years of existence. He was dripping wet, the rains on this 25th of December soaking both his flesh and his bones. He could even feel the coldness and sogginess in the depths of his soul. His name was Paul, and he thought his name did not matter. He thought his life did not even matter to many. He had always done things solo– walking the streets, sleeping on pavements. Unmarried, he had never experienced the joy of cupping with both hands the face of an innocent child, much less creating one for the joy of it. Relatives? Both his parents were dead, and the only sister he had also had become an unknown data in his memory, forty years with no contact, address lost, relationship lost, face lost. He had lived on menial jobs, and the last one in the series of never ending menial jobs he had left yesterday because like other never ending menial jobs it had left him unfulfilled.
On this miserable rainy night, he tried knocking at the door of a home in a rural community. This very minute, feeling cold, wet and lonely, he had only one focus: A knife. Perhaps they could lend him a knife. He wouldn’t tell them what he would do with it. He wanted to end his life. Read more…