2019-06-21 - Empathy

The bell tinkled merrily as Alexander slipped inside the clothing thrift shop. It was a bright and cheery place, trying to occupy that odd space between trendy vintage clothing and charity. Mannequins, bereft of heads and arms, modeled psychedelic 70s shirts and skirts in the picture windows to draw in the occasional nostalgia-minded young person with money to burn, but most of the clientele was dressed like Alexander: clothing on its second or third owner out of necessity, not fashion. The man behind the desk was about fifteen years younger than Alexander, dressed better than most of his customers. His warm, professional smile faltered a bit when he saw Alexander. “Hey,” he said, in that careful, brittle-bright tone most people in town used when they were trying to be socially polite to him. “How’s it hanging, Alexander? How’s your folks?”

“I’m fine. They’re fine,” Alexander replied, shying away from the sudden pulse of emotion from the other man – pity for him, sympathy for his parents for having him. It picked up echoes from a few townies around the room. The ones who weren’t too caught up in their own miseries to have pity for anyone but themselves. He took a breath, let it out slowly. He concentrated on the layout of the shop, instead. It had changed again. “Shirts?”

The man - Jacob Terrence Drake - gestured towards a few racks in the back right corner. “Men’s shirts and tops are there. Business clothes to the front, rest to the back.” Jacob offered a weak sort of grin. “Bet your dad would love to see you in one of our suits.” Like you were a productive adult, for once, he didn’t say, but the sentiment rested around the corners of his eyes, the too-tight smile.

“You’re not wrong,” Alexander allowed, and slouched his way towards the back racks without another word. He passed the business clothes – ties, button down shirts, and yes, even a few suit jackets that no doubt had matching pants somewhere around here – to stand before the casual rack. There was a sale on sweaters, since it had started to warm. He reached out to touch one that had probably been red, but the dye was cheap, and had faded to an unlovely pink. It was soft and frayed under his fingertips. He closed his eyes.

Standing in the rain, the water adding weight to his shoulders. The cheap, chintzy little bouquet in his hand drooped, all he could afford, but there were a couple of her favorite flowers in the center, surrounded by sprays of daisies and those little tiny white flowers he could never put a name to. She was standing across the street, looking beautiful. The man standing beside her leaned in for a kiss, and she laughed and pulled him closer--

Alexander jerked his hand away. Not that one. The shock and sorrow clung to it like cigar smoke. He wiped his fingertips on his jeans, but the sensation clung. Hastily, he moved on, running his fingers lightly over t-shirts and sweaters, trying not to delve too deep. Flickers of emotion pulsed against his skin. Most weren’t very strong, but eventually he picked out three that pleased him: a garish Hawaiian with the optimistic joy of a playful honeymoon, a band shirt for some group he’d never heard of that thrummed with dozens of concerts, and a sweatshirt with a few old stains that was steeped in peaceful meditation.

He turned, intending to make his way back to the counter then stopped by the business clothes as a tag caught his eye. Half off what was already a good deal, and the jacket was in his size. No stains, no frayed edges. It looked sharp. In it, Alexander might also look sharp. Or at least normal. Normal was probably the most realistic expectation. There were five jackets in slightly different, very professional colors, and all in his size. It was damn near a whole wardrobe for less than one of them would cost new.

Alexander touched the sleeve of one.

Loathing. Despair. Simmering rage. He was walking to work, hoping with every step that something would happen that would shatter the world. Shatter him. Anything would be better than going back to that damned cubicle, doing the same fucking thing, hearing the same stupid jokes, then coming back to the same miserable wife, the same useless kids. Alexander tried to pull away, but the power of the hatred – for himself and everything else – was too strong. He distantly heard a rattle of hangers, a startled shout nearby. But the emotions dragged him down like an undertow.

The gun was in the basement, because the bitch he married didn’t want it in the house. Someone might get hurt, she said. She was right. Someone was going to get hurt. She was going to get hurt. And then those brats, who probably weren’t even his damned kids, were going to get hurt. And when he was done. Well. The world could just go fuck itself, as long as he got to take a few of them with him--

Someone tore the fabric out of Alexander’s arms, another pair of hands grabbing him by the shoulders, pulling him back. A wave of fear and disgust rolled over him, too close to block out, and Alexander struck back on instinct. They tussled in a wild dance that took out another clothing rack and ended up with Alexander finally managing to disentangle himself from the grasp and let the emotions snap away from him until he was alone in his head again.

There was still fear. There was still disgust. But they were inside him, not imposed from outside, and there was nothing he could do about that. He stared, wide-eyed, at Jacob. Fallen clothes scattered around them, and shocked stares were riveted on the scene, trying to see if there was any more excitement. Alexander pushed away the pulse of shocked titillation, the background whispers. “Sorry,” he told Jacob, hastily. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to.” And then, before he could stop himself, he added, “You shouldn’t sell those. They’re poisoned.”

Jacob stared at him, and Alexander knew he’d said the wrong thing. The crazy thing. But what else could he say? The emotional reek on those clothes was so strong, surely it could affect even someone without a spark of empathy. Just the thought of someone going day by day with that kind of hate and despair rubbing against their skin, whispering in their ears. It made him sick for them, made him hurt. Poison was the only word he knew for it. He tried, anyway, but as his mouth worked, Jacob just sighed. Shook his head, and pointed out the door. “I’m not going to call the cops on you, because your dad was good to me in high school, and he’s got enough problems.” He’s got you, he didn’t have to say, and Alexander didn’t have to feel it, because it was all over his face. “But you need to leave and not come back for a while.”

Alexander’s shoulders hunched. “I’ll pay for the clothing. And any damages.”

“Just go, man. Before I change my fucking mind.”

Possibilities flickered in Alexander’s brain, raised and tested in moments, but the only ones that ended in anyone happy were the ones that made him a monster. So he just jerked his head in a nod, and shuffled out, past the stares, and a high-pitched, nervous giggle.

Outside, the clouds had broken for a brief moment – summer was coming to Gray Harbor. But instead of lifting his spirits, Alexander felt the weight of the light like a bug under a magnifying glass, slowly beginning to fry.

He ducked his head and walked on.