Some people hated themselves when they saw David. He would look at them, clearly hoping for some recognition, hoping they’d see him for what he used to be. David didn’t want to be crazy. It was a situation of multifaceted social politics and therefore wasn’t anyone’s fault. Of course, they’d always reply with the cold shoulder, eyes that darted furtively in various directions. The routine reactions from a-lucky-few chastened folks. For a moment, they’d look at one another. David would stare and they’d just glance, but for a moment, their eyes would meet. Their eyes would meet and when they did, there was an eerily disconsolate understanding. They knew they had just seen the face of a forlorn soul; desperate and pensive. Emotionally disorienting, looking away was a breath of fresh air. A breath like the first after drowning, or after a passionate strangling by a pair of cold and dormant hands. Hands they’d rather not recall. Hands that served as a reminder of their grief. Their shame, their regrets. These were hands of confrontation. The hands of David’s stare.

Alas, in the biting cold of the wilderness, they had one comfort. Only one, but it was enough. They were sure that deep down, despite haunting them so intentionally, David felt the same.