White

White

“I’m tired,” he mumbled. “I’m just... tired.”

“It’s not even very late yet. You haven’t even moved for a while. Why are you tired?”

“It is just all so tiring.”

“What is?”

The wind blew through the destination reached carrying a great force. A red feather from a bird gone far, floated and landed on the boy’s nose. He opened his eyes; his feeling restored but weak to move. The wind was warm - it felt cold. The first sight was the darkness of shade under the many leaves that filtered the silver light, reflecting unto the bed of grass where he lay.

“Everything.”

He had no idea where he was.

“I suppose a lot of things can wear you out… but everything?”

“I don’t know one thing that doesn’t.”

“I see.”

The great force still swirled around them. It made all the tall blades of grass clasp together, making a soft repeating sound. He was silent, as was the one beside him. Only when the great force subsided did the boy let is voice whimper in the air once more, twisted with fear and indifference.

“I’m waiting.”

“Waiting? For what?”

“You,” the boy said. “Aren’t you going to get started?”

“I do not know what you are taking about.”

“Go on; yell.”

“Yell?”

“Yell at me. I’m waiting for you to yell at me. I don’t want you to - but I know you will - so you should.”

The one beside him said nothing in reply.

“Do what they all do and hurt me,” he said exposing his weakness.

“What?”

“Do it quickly;” he said giving no assistance to his weak voice. He was perfectly aware of his state - maybe his legs and arms were rooted in the earth beneath. “Aim nowhere and you’ll hit my heart. Hit it as hard as you can. Please... Quickly. I... I cannot hurt you back.”

“...”

“Please...”

“That’s so strange!” she laughed gently. “You think I want to yell at you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“That is what everyone else does, isn’t it? People like to yell at people. They must think it is fun. I wouldn’t really know; I have never yelled at anyone, but the way everyone else does, it must be. They wouldn’t do it if it wasn't fun, or didn’t feel nice.”

“That’s,” the reply was hesitated for a moment, “true.”

“So?” he said helplessly, “have your fun. Go, on and make yourself feel good.”

“But what about you? Why should I yell at you, when you specifically said you don’t really want me to? What are you supposed to think?”

The feather was blown off the boy’s nose by the breeze. He managed to sit up.

“Are you really asking that? That is the problem when people yell at someone; what about the person that is being yelled at? What do they think? What are they supposed to think? But when you yell at someone, you don’t think about the problem in what you are doing.”

“I do! Why would you want me to yell at you?”

“That is what everyone else does,” he repeated, “isn’t it?”

“…”

“I get yelled at all the time by the grownups and others. They all say things that make me nod my head, very slowly. They like to talk about what I do wrong. It doesn’t matter if it is a mistake, they always love to talk about it.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Teacher likes to give tests. I think it is because Teacher knows we don’t like them, and Teacher likes that because Teacher doesn’t like us. Sometimes I might do bad on one of them; and everyone finds out about it even if I try to keep it a secret. They go on and on about how bad I did and how stupid I am. Sometimes I think it might be because they didn’t do very well on the test at all, so they make fun of me so they can feel better.

“But then I remember that grownups don’t have to take tests from Teacher, so they don’t have a reason to yell at me at all. They still do. Why? I don’t know. They just must really like yelling. … I always wish they would stop.

“My mom especially - she says all sorts of mean things to me. She yells at me because my grades are bad, even though I don’t know what “grades” are and no one ever tells me. Whenever I just mind my own business and do what I want to, she yells at me for wasting too much time dozing off. She yells at me for not doing my chores correctly – but when I decide not to do them so she won’t yell at me, she yells at me still for not doing them in the first place.

“And all the time, all the time, she yells at me about ‘how I always have that sad look on my face that she’s tired of looking at’. I ask her why she needs to yell, and she says it is for my own good.

“I don’t understand what is so good about making me want to cry. Then she just yells at me more for being such a crybaby.”

“I think they call that ‘patronizing’ or something.”

“What does that mean?”

“Uhmm… I don’t really know, actually…. Uh, nevermind. Go on.”

“Dad is worse; he may yell quieter but he makes it hurt more. I’m always afraid of him and try not to get in his way; but that just makes him angry. When I was smaller, I sort of remember him slapping me when I didn’t do exactly as he told me. It hurt. Sometimes I wish he wasn’t there.”

The boy was not whining. His words were said with a quiet voice that was both neutral and afraid. As he spoke to the one beside him, he kept his head loosely low with shame. Somehow he knew that everything he talked about was in some way or another his own fault. If he – for a moment – believed otherwise, it would have just been proven to him true. In the simple language of his young age, he spoke of the world just as simply as he knew it.

“Then there is school. Teacher and Principal aren’t different. Worse… are the rest. The others kids are some of the meanest people in the world. They don’t just say things like the grown ups do, they do things as well; very small things that the grownups never see. They talk about me behind my back; when they know I can hear them. They always leave me out of the fun things at recess, and even in class they always pick me last. The names they call me aren’t so bad, but it has to be the worst when they call me by my own name. Not once has any of them said it without a sneer on their face. Every time I hear my name, I know someone is going to yell at me. I get it from all of them, and all of the time. I hate my name. I hate my name…

“Only once did I try giving it back. Only one time did I try showing them that I didn’t like them for the way they acted to me. Part of me thought that they deserved it for how they kept acting. Another part of me thought that, I was acting like them, but only a little. Would they like me now, if I pretended to be like them? It was only a teeny tiny little bit like them, but I thought it would be okay, and they would be nicer to me.”

“Did they?”

“No. No one liked me for it. They only got meaner and started yelling even more. Then Teacher came and acted more mean than usual. Teacher said so much, and I only nodded my head knowing I did something wrong, but not what I did. Teacher gave me a week’s worth of detentions from recess, while the people who were meaner than me to begin with still got to play outside every day.

“When I got home, Mom and Dad already found out about it. They went crazy more than normal, saying ‘An attitude?! You have an attitude problem now?! Just who gave you the right to act like that?! White, just what the hell is wrong with you?!’ I didn’t understand why they were yelling, or needed to yell. If there is anything I wanted to tell them, it was just to at least say I only wanted to act like everyone else so I wouldn’t feel so alone. … So alone. I go to school and I’d be alone. I go home and be alone. Always alone. I wanted to tell them that, but by that time, I had already felt that I had long lost whatever weird game I was forced into playing. … I couldn’t fight back.”

“Fight back? Why would you want to ‘fight’ back?”

“Because I didn't understand. Why is everyone else allowed to act mean, but not me? It was so confusing. I didn’t understand, and they didn’t stop yelling. I just started crying just so I could get them to stop. That used to work on my parents to try and get them to stop all the yelling, but now it is working less and less.”

“You faked it?”

“Almost. It’s not that hard when your heart hurts. That feeling you always get when you know someone doesn’t like you – like something wanting to move, but everything else isn’t letting it. I can always feel it where my heartbeat is when someone is being mean. I’ve gotten used to it since I’ve felt it so much, but I can’t just seem to ignore it.

“They must really like being mean. They like it so much they don’t care about how much it hurts me. I am only ten years old, but all this bad stuff made it seem like fifty years instead. I’m tired. Very tired. I want to sleep, but I have nightmares about the same mean stuff, so I’m always waking up. And just when I start to actually sleep better, mom wakes me, telling me to get up for school.”

That nightmare told him a very simple message; the boy served a very specific function in society. He was the rare white fox that was caught in the forest by a clique of hunters and put into a boxed cage. The hunters have every intention of killing him; but how rare it is to find a white fox in the forest! They want to call the other hunters and showcase how great they are for catching him before they skin him alive and break his neck. He knows they are just using him, and he knows they are going to kill him when they grow tired of his... existing. He knows like the hunters themselves know, and so does his heartless audience. He wants to escape the cage – he honestly tries, but the hunters aren’t done with him. They want to get their fame.

“Yeah, I’m gonna kill this.”

“Sweet.”

“Nice catch, eh?”

“Yeah! You rock!”

“Wanna see something nice about him? Hold him down with your left hand and you can shove the barrel of the gun up his mouth!”

“Wow! You’re actually doing it!”

“Look at him! He freezes up completely! Check that expression on his face! Priceless!”

“I wanna try!”

“That’s not all! Roll him over; it works the exact same up his ass or between his hind legs.”

“Hey! Careful! He might get away.”

“Relax; if he takes a jet for it, I’ll just shoot him.”

This was the role the white fox in the forest served, as it was the boy’s. It is not like he could escape it either; his white fur would not hide him. How strange it is; that same name he can’t stand is the same of the colour that curses him.

“That’s why everything is tiring,” he said quietly. “I haven’t slept in… ever.”

“So did you sleep well?”

“Huh?”

“When you fell,” the one beside him said. “After you fell, you were asleep. Was it nice?”

The boy wasn’t looking at her. He was too ashamed to even try. “That was… Different.”

“How so?” she asked, “You were asleep for a long time. My watch said maybe for 5 hours.”

“That’s because… When I… I didn’t…” His voice started to break up.

“What?” She implored, “Tell me.”

The boy’s tears flowed once more. He tried to hide it with his head in his knees, but the sobbing and whines that followed couldn’t keep quiet.

“I’m sorry.” He begged her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”

The sun was just starting to set in the meadow as the twosome sat together under the tree at gallantly stood that the top of the hill. The lukewarm wind was kicking soft dandelion spores around, trying to wrap the both of them up in its comfortable warmth, carrying the smell of the strange flowers of the field to him as a hopeful form of sweetness. Like the girl, even nature had listened to his plight and saw what happened, and it tried what it could to comfort the poor fox. … Even if this method was to be a 100% effective panacea, it could not wipe away the guilty feeling the boy had – like he had violated the only thing that could have ever possibly mattered. His excuses no longer withstood the moment the snivelling voice broke from its cage.

His family was out in the country visiting a great aunt and uncle’s place as a type of gathering that only the aged father could really enjoy. The boy had no one his age he could play with, and no possible way to pass time. As anyone would, he grew to become a little bit distraught. His parents were chatting amiably with the rest of the grownups, so in hopes for finding something to do, he tried asking them about anything at all, but they seemed like they were ignoring him since the other grownups are much more interesting. He tried acting up, but he was only scolded for misbehaving and embarrassing them. He was condemned to stay in the guest room for the rest of the day, and possibly the rest of the visit, but as soon as his listlessness wore down, he saw how absurd it all was. He opened up a window, climbed onto a nearby tree branch and down onto the ground, and began a time in freedom.

He walked around the mild forest and overgrowth of the country just out of sight in the bushes along side the dirt road. Up until this point, all his bottled up emotions were beginning to beg for a shake up. He was craving for something to relieve his childish hate and sadness. It wasn’t long until he found a fork in the road, where one path was blocked off by a chained gate and a sign that read “Entry Prohibited! No trespassing and entrance whatsoever!” This sparked it for him. He thought “Another mean and selfish person. He probably put that gate there to be mean to people who want to take that road will have to take the long way for no good reason at all. Someone just wanted to be mean, and I think…. He’s going to get it!” so he climbed over the gate, and made his way into the forest.

It got increasingly darker as he walked through the forest. Eventually, the dirt path faded away into something that barely resembled a walkway. There were lots of thorns that tore up his clothes, plenty of burrs that caught on him, many puddles of mud that imped his movement, lots of vines to trip over, and many bugs to pester him. His vision was fading and the unnerving sounds of no identification rang throughout the forest. He was scared out of his mind, but the rage that was bubbling inside pushed him forward.

After around three hours of walking, looking for the one responsible for the gate, he came across a beautiful meadow, with a hill that had one single tree perched at the top. Flowers were in full bloom like no end, and the sun shone down to highlight the ecstasy of pure natural beauty that this wonderful meadow offered. Whoever put up that gate wanted this place all to their selves, but that was going to change, for the boy thought, as a way of pay back, he would take this place for himself.

In this same field, he spotted a young girl about his age or older, with a basket, picking some of the flowers. He shouted at her, telling her to get out, and that this was his place, all of it his, and his only. He ran at her through the long blades of grass, his arms flailing around, screaming. It was his intention to kill her for all the pain he thought she caused. But the moment he got anywhere close to her, he tripped over a rock and fell down to the ground really hard. In his last possible moment of consciousness, he bitted to himself about how she was just another mean person, just like the uncaring preteen gossips at his school that spread the rumor about him, Teacher, and something naughty, even though it wasn’t true. He believed this without doubt. She was just another girl like all the ones he has met before.

But he was the white fox who had yet to realize the world works against him. His subconscious repeated the words “I’m tired, I’m tired” as it was unaware what the girl he chose to be mean to was doing for him.

He was moved to under the shade of the tree on the hill, his cuts from the forest were wrapped around in small bandages, he was covered in a comfortable picnic blanket, his head rested on a pillow-like teddy bear covered in grass stains, and the smiling face of the same girl he tried to swing at, looking down at him, asking “Why are you tired?”

That’s what happened. The boy felt so bad about his intention to hurt a person, who only turned around and helped him. He cried, he cried, begging for forgiveness.

“Don’t cry.” She gently said, “I understand why now. It’s okay. I understand.”

“But…” He sobbed, “But…”

“I have a few cookies in my picnic basket I was saving for later. Do you want them? They might make you feel better.”

The boy couldn’t take it anymore. He turned his shaking head to her, his vision of her all distorted because of the tears in his eyes, and bluntly asked her, “Why…? Wh-Wh-Why are you so nice to me?”

“What? Why am I so… what?”

“Nice! Why are you so nice?! Why?! I haven’t done anything to deserve it. Not to you! I acted mean to you like I tried to act mean to all the other kids at school. You should have hated me like the rest of the kids, Teacher, and my mom did. … But you don’t! Why?! What about other people who are mean?! What do you do when they…” The tears flowed. “When they…!”

He wailed. The pain in his heart became too unbearable. It threw him up against the trunk of the tree, and then onto the ground. This time it was different; it wasn’t trying to move - but couldn’t; instead, it was moving too much. The heart was angry at itself, and was hitting itself, killing itself, in a best effort to try and redeem the great sin it committed. It was going insane, and it hurt. It hurt a whole lot worse than it ever did before.

Trying to hold back the many tears, he looked up at her, and asked in fear, “I don’t ‘owe you’ anything now, do I? You’re not going to make me…”

“… Of course not.”

“Then why?! I don’t understand! Why!?”

The girl was in too much awe at the result of her own sense. She was just without words. Maybe a whole minute passed with the two of them just staring at each other.

“… Well…” She started in a soft voice, “I’ll tell you what my grandma had told me once… You know how people are, right? When you meet someone – anyone – for the first time, you want them to know who you are. It is that way because you want to feel like you really are alive and not just dreaming it all.

“So, in order to make sure you really are alive, you try to make it so that each person can walk away with a little bit of you in them. If you don’t do this the right way, or at all, then it will feel like a dream again, and then it will become really lonely. That was the same reason why you tried to ‘act mean’ to the others at your school, because you wanted them to have a little piece of you with them so your loneliness will stop, and you thought that was the right way to do it. … You were sort of right. Being mean to someone will get them to remember who you are. They will all walk away immediately saying ‘boy, what a jerk’ or ‘I can’t believe that person’. It is very guaranteed to work, but the pieces of you that you gave them are bad and rotten. They don’t want to keep them, so after a while, they will throw them away and you’ll be alone again.

“Being nice is the opposite of that. Being nice is giving them the best of you. But the thing about it is, people don’t tend to notice it at all. Your mom or dad might notice if they go to the store and the person at the cash register is being mean to them, but they will often never notice when the cash register person is being nice to them, smiling at them, and being courteous to them. They just never see it, because there is never a difference between ‘not being mean’ and ‘not being anything’, since people hate it when others are mean to them, they don’t notice when they aren’t, since they are too busy thinking in disbelief about how that last person was mean to them. … Like that, being mean is really easy to do, and being nice is very hard to do. That’s what I think. … In fact, that might be what a lot of people think, but they only think about how easy it is to be mean, and how easy it is that way to get someone to remember you – they are forgetting about all the bad they are giving away.”

The girl was almost confusing herself saying this all, but at least she tired to make good sense with it.

“To be nice, is to give the best. It is hard, but you will make people remember only the best. As hard as it is, someone needs to do this, for there will come a time when everyone is going to need the best of everyone else. I don't know how else to put it.”

As simple as the drive for a meaningful existence in layman’s terms was said to him, the boy still couldn’t get it. All he did understand was that he and everyone around him mixed up the words for “mean” and “meaningful”. That was it, but he could not see anything else that she said. “… But… Why? Why would you take the hard route? What is in it for you?”

“I don’t know yet.” She answered. Over moments did she become aware of the flaws and double-edged selfishness her ideals had. Yet, there remained some hope within her, that maybe this luminous pathway could help the lost one find a way back; if only for a bit.

However, with that last line, the whole idea became too profound for the boy to understand. The poor fox could not see how it could ever help him. The whole idea of being a nice person offered no visible defense from the mean words of many that he so desperately wanted. Upon this realization, the tears only flowed once more. “… I don’t understand! Then why?! Why are you so nice to me?!”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” She said, taking his hand, looking at his face directly, and giving him a warm smile. “Do you still want a cookie?”

The rapid stream of tears flowed pure. Never before in history was there a time kindness had felt so painful.