​The Remorse Dissolver

Good morning, good afternoon, or good evening – whichever fits your time. Welcome to the Remorse Dissolver.

As you read through this piece of paper, you should be standing in a small shop – for me, it appeared at the end of the alley of one rainy night, yet for you it could occur anywhere else, at any time. It had bright yellow-orange light emitted from the windows when I got in, with walls painted in deep purple, curtains printed with orange flowers, and a metal wind chime hovering over the glass door. But anyway, it could be something totally different when you encountered it. Nonetheless, what never changed should be a large wooden sign outside the building that read: The Remorse Dissolver. That’s why you were here. Only one with deep grief in their hearts can see this small, nice building.

You pushed open the door as I once did. As you look around, you would see a large mirror standing in the corner, and a variety of clocks – some like the modern watches, some the old master clock, some made of glass, of steel, of plastic, with each tied to a piece of fabric hanging down from the ceiling that swayed back and forth spontaneously. You should see no one in this room, and you may be curious about everything here.

I would tell you all about it, but please be patient and read my story first – the story of a man as the last customer of this shop.

It was a rainy evening, and I was wandering on the street. I had a terrible day. My son screamed in the morning not going to school, and to cease the farce and eventually thrust him into the school gate, I was late for work. At 10:45 am we had a meeting with I staying silent and listening to all my colleagues reporting their achievements. I had a cold lunch. At 3:20 pm I accidentally dropped the coffee cup and spilled it on the floor, while my boss happened to stride into the office with steam coming out of his ears. My scolding finished at 4:01. I left for home at 5, realizing that it was raining and that I forgot to take an umbrella. I walked into the rain, my backpack in my arms and the cold water just climbed from the soles to my legs.

Walking, I saw many happy faces – happy even in such rains. I saw a young couple, hand in hand with a sweet smile, the man holding a big umbrella sheltering both of them, the rain droplets streaking across the numerous little red hearts on the canopy. I saw a little boy in his school uniform – which reminded me of my son – bouncing in the puddles besides his mother, who gazed at her son pleasantly. There were also teenage boys, unafraid of the “little” rain, who was slapping and hopping around each other; men in suits and ties sitting comfortably in cars; the old lady in the teahouse happily welcoming one and another customer who came in to take shelter. It seemed as if I was the only sorrowful person in this world. Why did everyone look so happy, while my life had been full of regrets and misfortunes? I thought. And as if all bad things in life had swarmed on me, I suddenly recalled losing one very important childhood friend, breaking up with my first girlfriend, mom and dad arguing and fighting in that small house, my wife on her deathbed, her eyes in tears – and my eyes were in tears. I walked faster, but not to return home because I feared hearing another of my son’s screams; I just didn’t know where I could be. I just walked.

It felt like hours later that I raised my head and saw the little shop. Out of curiosity, I approached the building and entered it. The wind chime rang, and immediately a woman in dark clothes welcomed me from the counter. “Good evening, sir,” I heard her ethereal, yet sweet voice echoing in the small room, “What can I do for you?”

I said I was just curious about the place and asked what she did.

Her dark eyes blazed quietly, and for a fleeting second, I seemed to see something in them, something deep and eerie. She blinked and started her explanation, and I would report it, in turn, to you.

This is a place aimed to help those with deep regrets in their hearts, and therefore only those – like you – can see the building, as I had told you earlier. The large mirror can help you return to that moment. Just walk in there, and you will enter a special space that reflects your deepest, most regretful piece of memory. Successfully change your past, and it will send you back to this shop. Then you can leave.

But be aware, and this is a very serious warning - anything you have done there does not have the slightest influence on reality. If your favorite dog died and you saved its life in the mirror, your dog is still dead when you return. But even so, for some, it was still a heal, because they had done something that they deeply, sincerely hoped to change – even though they knew it was somehow “fake”. They just wanted to feel what it’s like to get it right. Just to find something to fill in that emptiness.

Does this sound desirable to you? Is it something that you terribly hoped to try – even though you knew it was nothing more than a placebo? If your answer is yes, congratulations that we – you and the “I” in this shop – have reached a consensus.

It is also worth noting that the machine only spans from your birth to the moment you entered it – your memory on this earthly world. If you made anything that you regret in the machine, you cannot go to ‘the past’ in the space to repair it. Or it would be an infinite cycle. The system would crash down. So far, everything good and makes sense, right?

However, there is a price. It’s a deal. If you successfully returned, you’re good to go. But if you failed correcting that memory and left it in a bad ending, then you can never leave this shop until you fix the problem. You will have a way to communicate with the future customers – as I and the woman did, but you can never walk out of the building as your consciousness – your soul - stays trapped in the mirror. That’s how the machine is designed: it always reflects the most painful thing until it was done. And if you failed, you will be the one to replace my position – staying in this shop forever until you find another person to take over your chains. You have ten trials in total.

This was what the woman told me: “I never hurt anyone for my own good. Look, it’s all your own decision. If you like, you can just walk out and go home. I had told you the risk. I never push anyone.”

And that also applies to you. You’re free to choose. However, please read the whole story before making your decision. You’re not in a hurry, are you?

Anyways, I believed in her. I have to admit that I was out of my mind that evening, and that her sayings were attractive to me. I had always believed that it would be different, at some moments in life, if I had done or chosen not to do something.

If.

And I believed that if I had a chance to start over, I could get it right. Just to feel what it was like to get it right. Just to feel as if I had made some amendments – though it doesn’t mean anything in reality. Just one piece of memory, just relieve myself from one profound grief, and I’ll go back home.

“Already made your decision?” She watched me closely. I nodded, and we walked to the mirror together.

“Listen, I’ll say my condition again,” she said. “Go into the mirror, fix your most regretful past, and you can return to reality. Is that clear?” I nodded. “Then go,” she said. “Good luck.”

When I stepped into the mirror, I seemed to see an eerie smile curling at her mouth. This made me a little uneasy, but I confirmed to myself that I had the most painful memory that was nothing more than a simple mistake, and I would come out, eventually.

Now you may be curious about why I was so confident. I had always known what my deepest remorse was; I knew and I was sure. It was a huge argument between my father and mother when I was 16. It all started because I wanted to drink out at night with my friends; no, I didn’t dare to tell them directly, but mom found out and she was mad because dad was an alcoholic and was just lying drunkenly on the sofa, grunting. She shouted at me for “becoming a drunkard like your father”, and dad was not happy with it, so he stood up and joined the dispute. Then they started accusing each other of not paying enough attention to this family. Mom said dad returned home every time drenched in the scent of liquor, leaving a mess in the house that eventually all fell on her shoulders, with her having to work and do all the chores at the same time. Dad justified that he earned more money for the family, and that eating out with colleagues helped with “networking”. What do you know, he said, you women, are you earning for this family? Housework should be your responsibility. Mom banged on the table and dad smashed a glass jar to the floor. Now they had started fighting, and I tried to intervene, but dad gave me a slap on the face and mom pushed me away, hitting him and shouting “how dare you touch my son”. I sat on the floor with glass pieces, completely in shock that I didn’t know what to do, until mom screamed in pain – she fell to the floor, a fruit knife stabbed into her chest.

I called the ambulance and the police; dad was jailed and mom passed away.

For all these years, I had been blaming myself. Why did I have to bring up that topic? If I were a good child that night, a perfect son, maybe there wouldn’t be the fight at all. Maybe everything would still be the same – though dad still got drunk most of the time and mom still complained while doing the dishes. But that home would remain as I remembered…as I cherished.

So, when I walked in, I thought I could just remain silent about drinking, and that would kill the fight in the cradle. Well, I was not smart enough to realize that the true power behind an eruption lies deep in the mantle, far exceeding the magma that flows into sight.

The scenario of an autumn night at home emerged in front of me as soon as I entered the space. I saw dad lying on that old, fabric sofa, with the springs creaking and groaning as he rolled over. Mom was doing the dishes in the small kitchen, her hands soaked in a mixture of detergent, water, oil, and sweat. I was standing at the bedroom door, just finished calling my friend and was about to ask for mother’s permission to go out at night. This time, I walked into the kitchen, took the dishes, and told mom to go and take a rest. She smiled and said that I had grown up, wiping her hand and untying her apron. I stayed among piles of dirty dishes, cold water brushing through my hands and I smelled the familiar smoke-like flavor that I used to disdain - yet I felt a strange feeling of peace. This is what it supposed to be for home, I thought.

Nevertheless, several minutes later, I heard mom and dad shouting in the living room. I didn’t know why; maybe mom saw dad lying there, drunken, and had a bad temper, or maybe dad, losing his mind, said something offensive to mom. I didn’t know. All I knew was, it started again. I didn’t have time to intervene before mom died. The scene blacked out and I was sent back to the bedroom door, where it had all started.

The second time I went to dad. I looked after him and tried to tell him that mom worked hard for this family, that he should be more understanding. But dad became irritated and started roaring at me. Mom rushed out from the kitchen to protect me. And you know what happened next.

The third time I just sat in the living room, ready to intervene when the fight started. I successfully pushed mom away and wrestled with dad, who grabbed a knife and stabbed me. And mom sheltered me with her body – it was all the same.

The fourth time I called the police from the beginning, but they came too late.

The fifth time I pulled mom out of the house and consoled her, but when we returned…it was all the same. I don’t want to tell you more. It still ached as I wrote down these words.

You see, it took a lot to change even one small piece of argument. I realized that the arrogance of humanity as well as the regret - the intense regret itself that pushed us to this shop - made me accept this deal. Everyone who was trapped for this reason then became smart to apply the same strategy on the next victim to be free again.

However, I would tell you that eventually, I succeeded. How? Look, there’s an important question: how does the machine determine which point in time to send you to? How does it determine what is the “start point” of the tragedy? The answer also lies in your heart: it sends you to where you think is the initiation of all. So, when I recognized that the tension had been growing far earlier than its breakout, I was sent back, years back in life, to a child’s age. I re-lived my childhood and adolescence, paying attention to those small warnings of tension when mom looked unhappy but chose to stay silent, or when dad sighed over the piles of bills. I mediated between my parents, and their mindset gradually changed. After years and years of my effort, they were eventually at peace, holding each other’s hands on the old sofa, no arguing, no fighting.

And I just stood there, watching them. I thought that the task was difficult, but not always impossible to accomplish. Here’s the checklist: you have to be clear about what your deepest remorse is; it has to be amendable; you need to figure out the right starting point for the repair. Anyways, I was lucky to finish it within ten trials; some others were not.

As I watched them, I felt that the scene was fading. The living room, the old sofa, my parents, were all disappearing slowly in front of me. And I knew that the time had come, that I had to return. I remained silent, savoring the scenario like watching the end of a beautiful movie, feeling a sense of relief. The remedy was fake yet indeed effective.

How lucky I was, I thought, to have a chance to compensate for my past. How lucky I was to be able to fix this piece of memory. But the others…the others can never be redeemed. How nice it would be if all my regrets in life had a chance of redemption…

I closed my eyes, ready to go home.

But when I opened them again, I found that I was still there. The space remained. I was confused, so might be you. Why do you think I failed getting out?

And the space shook. For an instant, I found myself sitting in a classroom with a math exam opening in front of me, the one that I failed in high school that ruined my GPA. The next moment I stood by a wooden bench, a bouquet thrown down at my feet and a young girl stalked away without looking at me. And then it was my wife – my wife in the hospital, holding my hand, my son, still a baby, looked at us with curiosity, not having the slightest idea of what death could possibly mean. I couldn’t help but kneel on the ground, my face in my palms. It hurt; it hurt so much.

And I suddenly knew everything – I knew what that woman meant; I knew why I was still here. Have you figured out the secret of this mirror?

Okay, now read again what she had told me:

Go into the mirror, fix your most regretful past, and you can return to reality.

What is “the most regretful past”? The most regretful, the superlative, the word game?

It was a cheat. You see, even if you fixed the first problem, the so-called “most regretful” memory, you now had relieved about it. It faded. However, there could always be other painful things that now filled the vacancy of “the most regretful” – just as I pondered how the other things could also be compensated, just as all the previous victims, in their wonders. The machine always reflects the most painful thing…until it was done.

It had taken me so many cycles – and so many years - to save my parents from a dispute. How many more tries would I then give to retrieve a failing relationship? To reverse the inevitable falling apart as friends grow older? To save my wife from Stage 4 cancer? Moreover, when someone had all his regrets taken off, when he became completely light-hearted, easy with life, without any pain – could he still be called a man? Would he still have a soul?

I, like the numerous other customers, was trapped the moment I stepped in here.

As soon as this realization came to me, I thought of my son. I remembered his sweet smile, his little hands holding mine, him running in the yard, chasing a ball. I thought of him, so little, waiting for his father to get home. Suddenly I was desperate. I punched the ground and screamed and ran wildly around. I don’t want to end up here. I want to go home, to look after my son until he could independently survive – and live well – in this world, to accompany him through the numerous moments of his future – our future.

Isn’t it funny, huh? Regrets of the past pushed me here, escaping from my life, for something – the restoration – that I didn’t have the slightest opportunity of. Now I had it, I had all of it, but now – I wanted a future.

And you, now having heard of my full story, still have a chance. This is my most sincere advice: do not go into the mirror. I don’t know how many were cheated ahead of me, but we humans have a similar heart – a heart of arrogance, of fear, of regret, and of risk-taking, dreaming ourselves being the one with exceptions. So be wise this time. Go home. I wrote down this piece to warn you at the cost of myself never going back home.

And if you decide to listen to me – thank you for doing so – there are two more things that I wish you could do for me. One was to go to 106 Kings Drive and knock on the door. If an old lady answered, ask her if she knew Charles Bergson – that’s me – and little Tommy Bergson, my son. And if she said yes, please ask her to tell little Tommy – or you could do it in person – that his father always loved him. And that he was sorry that he had to leave, but he wished his son to be always happy, and to be strong. Also, please tell the old lady that I loved her as well, and hope she enjoys her life.

But if it was someone else who appeared confused and said no, maybe it had been too long since I stayed here, that my mother-in-law had passed away, and that my son had grown up and moved somewhere else. You can forget about it, then.

And my second request is to break the mirror. Smash it, and the machine will be destroyed. I would be wiped out along the way, but I consider it worthwhile for no more people walking into this shop, with one of them possibly being my son. I would be very grateful for your kindness – and courage - if you had chosen to do so.

As for this piece, you’re free to do anything with it – hide it, tear it apart, take it home – whichever you like. I hope you enjoyed my story and that it made a difference to you. Good luck with your future.

Charles