The Hand You Would Not Take
(Warning: Mentions of abuse.)
You will not remember this dream when I tell you about it. You will say that it is just some fiction I have created within my head and placed on paper, for the entertainment and joys of others. I tell you now, though, that while you won’t remember, you did have this dream. Everyone has this dream at some point or another in this life, though when they have it, what they choose is entirely up to what sort of person they are at the moment and it will help shape who they are going to be.
The dream starts with the view of a hand. It might have, once upon a very long time ago, been a very pretty hand but now it is not. Dirt and dried blood can be found under the nails that have been chewed to the point where there’s barely any nail left for the dirt to hide underneath. The hands appears unwashed and dirty, as though someone has been digging in a garden and then was forced to come and greet you without having time to wash their hands.
Your eyes, against your will, travel up the pale wrist to the arm where you gape at the crisscrossing scars and scabs running the pale underside of the arm. A couple of the scars ooze blood slightly. Your eyes move up more, to a shoulder, which has a bruise on it, strangely resembling that of a hand. Not wanting to look this person in the eyes yet, you stare in fascinated horror at their throat, feeling an answering ache start in sympathy. Barbed wire encircles the slender, delicate column in a gross parody of a necklace, producing small lines of blood from skin that is already bruised blue and black.
You eyes move downward and you see that the person is wearing a shirt that is so dirty, as well as far too big, that you still can’t discern what sex they are. You eyes move down to the legs where you find pants that have been cut off at the knees, revealing knees that are so badly scraped and bruised you can barely see the pale white color of them. The feet, bared to show that they have not been spared the abuse the body had endured, show numerous cuts and sores, covered in a thin layer of dirt, as though the person has been walking a long, dirt path to get to you.
Finally, as there’s nothing left to do, your eyes move upward and you move past the abused knees to the sliced arms and the dirty shirt to stare, again in horror, at their throat. You eyes move up against your will and you see that the person’s lips are very red; for a moment you think it’s natural until you realize that they have been colored by the person’s blood in some horrible mockery of lipstick. You finally stop focusing on the lips and move upward to a nose that is crooked and slightly swollen, a testament to a history of broken noses and abuse.
You skim past the eyes, somehow frightened by what you’ll find there, and focus on cheeks, noticing that they hold a gaunt look, like that of someone who is frightened or hasn’t had the nutrition they’ve needed, though in this case it is probably both. A livid bruise can be found on their right cheek and from there you look at the hair. It is a deeper black than any you have ever seen, though you never really thought that black could be deeper than it already was. Its length is undeterminable due to the fact that is so tangled it sits about the person’s shoulders, though you get the sense that it should be longer. It looks haphazardly cut, as though it was cut in haste or cut without permission of the owner. Finally, with nothing else to look at and digest, you move to look the person in the eyes.
The eyes are almost too much too bear. They are a beautiful color; a deep, dark blue and they are the first proof that you get that this person could have been incredibly beautiful. They are framed by dark lashes which are clumped together from tears that the person has stopped crying, and that somehow you know that they won’t cry again. A large livid bruise encircles the right one, attaching to the blotch that mars the matching cheek. It is the look in the eyes that is almost too much to bear. Inside they hold everything that you could ever hope for and fear for. They hold infinite love, despite the mild reproach, almost as if the person is asking you why you didn’t stop this from happening. Fear, from what you cannot yet say, and pain in amounts that are unfathomable to a sane mind.
Your eyes are irresistibly drawn back down the hand, which is held out to you in a gesture of acceptance and, at the same time, need. Need for what you can’t truly say. Need for acceptance. Need for love. Need, perhaps, for just human contact. Except… you know, somehow, that if you take that hand, everything in you life will change, because what they ask is not that you take them away from the abuse, but rather that you share it with them. Rather, that you take the blows meant for them and receive the kicks and share their scars and pain. You know, oh do you know, that sometimes you will have to take more than your fair share of the hurt and the pain, because they are so easy to break. If you falter for one moment, you know it will take all you have to get their confidence back.
However, they could walk away, you realize as you stare at the hand. They don’t have to take this abuse and they know it and you know it and yet they stay. Why, you don’t know, but you realize that they don’t have to, but that they take it because they love those that abuse them. Standing there in front of you, covered in proof of their abuse, you understand that the abused would still do anything for those that have abused them.
You don’t remember taking a step back, looking back up at the eyes. You don’t remember watching as the person stares back at you, a resigned look on their face. You don’t remember the realization of who and what this person is filtering in. You don’t remember falling to your knees in your dream world. You don’t remember watching as the person’s head snaps backward for a moment, at the moment your knees hit the floor, and you don’t remember staring with horrified sorrow as the person looks back at you, a matching bruise on the other side of their face. A bruise you know you have put there. You don’t remember watching as they slump down to sit with their knees drawn to their chest. You don’t remember watching as they stare at you, no tears, except those which are held deep within their gaze. You don’t remember, but that being does because they remember everything.
They are God and you have just turned away from their hand. They are bound and trapped and bleeding from the guidelines that society has placed upon them, and they are abused at everyone’s hands, sometimes with a horrible glee. They have asked you to help them, to take their hand and to walk with them. They have admitted that it is a hard path, full of hurts and danger and prejudice, but they are getting tired and they can use all the help they can get. Yet, you have stuck them another blow, crushed just one more hope, caused one more bruise not just on flesh but on heart as well, among the thousand bruises that are there.
They still love you. Even as you stand up and walk away and wake up and forget all about your “silly dream” they watch you with love in their eyes, they take what you dish out all while saying that they love you.
Created: February 2006
Last Edited: 23 December 2008
Notes: This is how I view God in today's world. I think that s/he is heavily abused and used for other people's prejudices and gain. Please note that I do believe that everyone treats God this way, just a lot of people. And I think that a there a lot of people who have doubts about how others are treated but refuse to say anything about it, which is what this story is about because: "Do not fear your enemies. The worse they can do is kill you. Do not fear friends. At worst, they may betray you. Fear those who do not care; they neither kill nor betray, but betrayal and murder exists because of their silent consent." -Bruno Jasienski (Yasensky)
You will not remember this dream when I tell you about it. You will say that it is just some fiction I have created within my head and placed on paper, for the entertainment and joys of others. I tell you now, though, that while you won’t remember, you did have this dream. Everyone has this dream at some point or another in this life, though when they have it, what they choose is entirely up to what sort of person they are at the moment and it will help shape who they are going to be.
The dream starts with the view of a hand. It might have, once upon a very long time ago, been a very pretty hand but now it is not. Dirt and dried blood can be found under the nails that have been chewed to the point where there’s barely any nail left for the dirt to hide underneath. The hands appears unwashed and dirty, as though someone has been digging in a garden and then was forced to come and greet you without having time to wash their hands.
Your eyes, against your will, travel up the pale wrist to the arm where you gape at the crisscrossing scars and scabs running the pale underside of the arm. A couple of the scars ooze blood slightly. Your eyes move up more, to a shoulder, which has a bruise on it, strangely resembling that of a hand. Not wanting to look this person in the eyes yet, you stare in fascinated horror at their throat, feeling an answering ache start in sympathy. Barbed wire encircles the slender, delicate column in a gross parody of a necklace, producing small lines of blood from skin that is already bruised blue and black.
You eyes move downward and you see that the person is wearing a shirt that is so dirty, as well as far too big, that you still can’t discern what sex they are. You eyes move down to the legs where you find pants that have been cut off at the knees, revealing knees that are so badly scraped and bruised you can barely see the pale white color of them. The feet, bared to show that they have not been spared the abuse the body had endured, show numerous cuts and sores, covered in a thin layer of dirt, as though the person has been walking a long, dirt path to get to you.
Finally, as there’s nothing left to do, your eyes move upward and you move past the abused knees to the sliced arms and the dirty shirt to stare, again in horror, at their throat. You eyes move up against your will and you see that the person’s lips are very red; for a moment you think it’s natural until you realize that they have been colored by the person’s blood in some horrible mockery of lipstick. You finally stop focusing on the lips and move upward to a nose that is crooked and slightly swollen, a testament to a history of broken noses and abuse.
You skim past the eyes, somehow frightened by what you’ll find there, and focus on cheeks, noticing that they hold a gaunt look, like that of someone who is frightened or hasn’t had the nutrition they’ve needed, though in this case it is probably both. A livid bruise can be found on their right cheek and from there you look at the hair. It is a deeper black than any you have ever seen, though you never really thought that black could be deeper than it already was. Its length is undeterminable due to the fact that is so tangled it sits about the person’s shoulders, though you get the sense that it should be longer. It looks haphazardly cut, as though it was cut in haste or cut without permission of the owner. Finally, with nothing else to look at and digest, you move to look the person in the eyes.
The eyes are almost too much too bear. They are a beautiful color; a deep, dark blue and they are the first proof that you get that this person could have been incredibly beautiful. They are framed by dark lashes which are clumped together from tears that the person has stopped crying, and that somehow you know that they won’t cry again. A large livid bruise encircles the right one, attaching to the blotch that mars the matching cheek. It is the look in the eyes that is almost too much to bear. Inside they hold everything that you could ever hope for and fear for. They hold infinite love, despite the mild reproach, almost as if the person is asking you why you didn’t stop this from happening. Fear, from what you cannot yet say, and pain in amounts that are unfathomable to a sane mind.
Your eyes are irresistibly drawn back down the hand, which is held out to you in a gesture of acceptance and, at the same time, need. Need for what you can’t truly say. Need for acceptance. Need for love. Need, perhaps, for just human contact. Except… you know, somehow, that if you take that hand, everything in you life will change, because what they ask is not that you take them away from the abuse, but rather that you share it with them. Rather, that you take the blows meant for them and receive the kicks and share their scars and pain. You know, oh do you know, that sometimes you will have to take more than your fair share of the hurt and the pain, because they are so easy to break. If you falter for one moment, you know it will take all you have to get their confidence back.
However, they could walk away, you realize as you stare at the hand. They don’t have to take this abuse and they know it and you know it and yet they stay. Why, you don’t know, but you realize that they don’t have to, but that they take it because they love those that abuse them. Standing there in front of you, covered in proof of their abuse, you understand that the abused would still do anything for those that have abused them.
You don’t remember taking a step back, looking back up at the eyes. You don’t remember watching as the person stares back at you, a resigned look on their face. You don’t remember the realization of who and what this person is filtering in. You don’t remember falling to your knees in your dream world. You don’t remember watching as the person’s head snaps backward for a moment, at the moment your knees hit the floor, and you don’t remember staring with horrified sorrow as the person looks back at you, a matching bruise on the other side of their face. A bruise you know you have put there. You don’t remember watching as they slump down to sit with their knees drawn to their chest. You don’t remember watching as they stare at you, no tears, except those which are held deep within their gaze. You don’t remember, but that being does because they remember everything.
They are God and you have just turned away from their hand. They are bound and trapped and bleeding from the guidelines that society has placed upon them, and they are abused at everyone’s hands, sometimes with a horrible glee. They have asked you to help them, to take their hand and to walk with them. They have admitted that it is a hard path, full of hurts and danger and prejudice, but they are getting tired and they can use all the help they can get. Yet, you have stuck them another blow, crushed just one more hope, caused one more bruise not just on flesh but on heart as well, among the thousand bruises that are there.
They still love you. Even as you stand up and walk away and wake up and forget all about your “silly dream” they watch you with love in their eyes, they take what you dish out all while saying that they love you.
Created: February 2006
Last Edited: 23 December 2008
Notes: This is how I view God in today's world. I think that s/he is heavily abused and used for other people's prejudices and gain. Please note that I do believe that everyone treats God this way, just a lot of people. And I think that a there a lot of people who have doubts about how others are treated but refuse to say anything about it, which is what this story is about because: "Do not fear your enemies. The worse they can do is kill you. Do not fear friends. At worst, they may betray you. Fear those who do not care; they neither kill nor betray, but betrayal and murder exists because of their silent consent." -Bruno Jasienski (Yasensky)