Young Writers Society

Schadel, upon hearing what the woman a few tables over said, immediately straightened and looked in her direction. If she wasn't so terrified of being found out, she might have been smart enough to check to see what her soul looked like. But she was terrified, so she awkwardly got to her feet and made her way over.

"Um, excuse me?" Schadel hesitantly said, ignoring the miserable man near her. "Did you mention something about seeing people's souls?"

Astrid's eyes widened at the girl, and they tried to think back, feeling a cold rush of fear. Had they really said that?

"Shhh!" They put a finger to their lips, spitting a little, "where did you hear that? Are you trying to get me in serious trouble??"

They leaned in close as they delivered this, whispering very loudly.

James pulled away slightly from their grasp, regretting the moment he unintentionally invited the return display of physical interaction by putting his hand on their shoulder. His eyes grew even more watery and full of tears the more they spoke.

"That's..." his voice broke, becoming only a hoarse whisper. "That's what I've been hoping for all this time..." he looked down again at the bar with a sob. His voice fell to a level barely audible. "That it'll get better. But it's only gotten worse."

And as their attention was stolen away by a woman further down the bar, he again buried his face in his arms and cried, quiet, mournful sobs.

"You just said it?" Schadel hesitantly replied, looking between the woman and the sobbing man beside her. She was still terrified of having been found out, so she refrained from looking at the woman's soul. While that may have given her the answer that she needed, she had another way to achieve the same result.

She would just ask her.

Dropping her voice down to the quietest whisper she could muster, she asked, "Why can you see people's souls?"

Astrid debated telling her the truth. It didn't seem like this girl was a spy, or that she was even aware that they really weren't supposed to check up on living people's souls. There wouldn't be any harm in answering her question. They leaned in to match her quiet tone, trying their hardest not to spit on her face.

"I'm a demon. I can see people's souls because it's my job to judge them." They murmured. "Let me ask you this- what do you know about it?"

Even with their vision blurry with alcohol, they hadn't missed the frightened expression on the girl's face. It seemed more complex than the usual apprehension that they would have been met with.

Kratzer got another bottle and listened in on the surrounding conversations, looking altogether very unhappy.

It actually took me a moment to notice that Astrid had left to comfort some broken down man from a table down. I did miss her company, admittedly, but I admired her for doing such a thing, so stayed where I was, with the film, and the vodquila.

But a few minutes in, I could not help but notice her be accosted by that troublesome young lady, which left the poor man to his own sad devices.

It was none of my business. It was none of anyone's business. I was probably not the best choice for anyone in his position. But I could feel that conscience of mine rearing its persistent head, calling me to take over from where Astrid had left off.
A blue moon must have been overhead, for I actually felt like listening to the damn thing.

I downed the rest of the bottle, and called over the bartender.

''Gin. Any brand, just make it strong. I can still feel some final weak vestiges of sobriety, and I wish to banish them entirely.''


Gin acquired, I headed over to the woebegone fellow, and sat down beside him.

''Hello. I apologize in advance, I'm probably the last person you deserve in a time like this. I really can't promise that anything will get better. But I'll tell you right now that you don't owe the world a bloody thing, especially not your gratitude.
If it's all gone to sh*t, you have every right to be upset about it.''

I took a hearty swig of gin.

''The standards...the standards y' have for yeself...you seem to think that coming out of a horrible life as anything less than a perfect man is something to be ashamed of. Man, it takesh everything you've got to come out of that jusht....not...bad.
I've seen plenty men go rotten for so, so much lesh.''

It took all the self control that I had left to not finish that sentence with 'Myself, for example.' I hoped I would not have need of control again, later. My supply was spent.

James could hear the sound of a chair being pulled out next to him, and someone sitting down. He was too afraid to lift his face anymore. What was the point? He wouldn't be able to see through the layer of tears over his eyes, and even he was self aware enough to know that he had tears and snot all over his face. He wiped his nose on his sleeve as his sobs began to subside, and his shoulders scrunched up as the man's voice came to him.

More consolation.

But the not the kind he had been expecting. This man... seemed to expect nothing of him. In fact, it almost sounded like... he was congratulating him. What, for not being a terrible person?

He dared to look up at him, wiping his eyes and trying to meet the face of the person who told him words he hardly ever heard, and even less so believed. Logic told him he didn't know the man. The vodquila told him he was looking at his father. He didn't know which one to believe, but even the thought made his mouth tremble again to keep another wave of tears at bay.

"All I've ever been told," he whispered, gaze falling to the table. "Is that I'm... rotten. I don't know who I am... if I'm not."

He took in a sharp, shaky breath as regret stabbed him in his side, making his heart ache almost unbearably. "Y-you don't know what I've done," he continued, curled over the table. "I'm - I'm a cowar-"

He wasn't able to finish his sentence, or say the thought out loud. His words devolved into more crying, though considerably less loud. He curled up his arms around himself, not looking at anyone. He wanted to hide.

''Go on then, tell me, then, you perferfectionisht, you. Tell me what you did. We'll shee if yer that bad.'' I said, confident that whatever he said, I'd be able to counter it with something worse.

I started to wonder how that was supposed to be helpful, but by the time I began to question it, I had already said it.

Not his father. No, the visage had turned accusatory - rightfully - at his pitiful excuses. He kept his face hidden in his arms. It took him a few seconds, that felt like an eternity, to fight back the tears and say words.

"In a competition of wrongs," he sniffed. "I wouldn't expect to win anyfing."

"But the... the day I left... my family..." he whispered. "I can never forgive myself."

I spluttered out something that vaguely resembled laughter. ''Hah! me too.''

I took a second to gather myself.

''Shit. Sorry, that was inapper...innaproperate. Did ye have a choice in the matter?''
I said, trying to sound at least a little sympathetic this time.

James had not expected someone to express a like-situation. He looked up to the man, sobs momentarily stopping as tears still escaped his eyes. His expression hardened.

"It was my choice. I left them. And they needed me. But I left because I was-" he looked away again. This time out into the bar, at nothing in particular. "-I was angry. Angry at the world."

''See, you have the world. The whole world, or whatever that meansh.
I started thish whole mess,'' I gestured at myself as I uttered those last two words, ''becaush I was angry at just one, specific man.''

Damn. Making the conversation about myself was horrible, horrible etiquette in this sort of conversation. Once again, I realized I was being rude only after I had already said the stupid words.

''But I really know, where yer' coming from. Deshpite reashons, good or bad, abandoning yer family... it sticksh with you forever. Ye can be the biggesht goddamn saint in the world after that, but the guilt, that kind of guilt... it never leaves you.''

Godbloodyf*ckingdamnit. No. No. I would not start crying, too. Not when I was trying to help somebody else, for heaven's sake.

"No..." James whimpered. He didn't mean to. It just happened. "It doesn't. And the worst part is... I told her I'd be back again. That I was just leaving for a little while. And she - Larrel - she was only f-ffffour. And she b-believed me. But I never did go back. And now they think I'm dead, that I died years ago, and sometimes I think? Maybe it's better this way?" he looked back at the man with tearful eyes. "Maybe it's better that they move on entirely. That my sister doesn't have to learn that her brother is a traitor to the kingdom who threw his life away. My mother-" his voice broke again, and he leaned forward towards the comforting stranger, who knew if only a fraction of his pain. "My mother," he slurred again, unable to even find words for how he felt about his mom.

'Maybe it's better this way.' That was the sentiment that hit me the hardest.
I didn't know what my family thought about me, but I hoped that they thought of me as little as possible.

This man, I had no knowledge of his reasoning for what he did, but I could not help but feel as though his must have been nobler.
And now, in the present, he did not bury his guilt. He did not spend all his waking hours trying his hardest to purge his soul of those he abandoned.

I imagined his sister. I pictured his mother, which became mine instead.

Having no words to say, I put a hand on his shoulder, and wept.

A little for myself. Mainly, for him.