Free Scarleton Series I : Before the Cult by Sandy Masia

isn’t it?” I
replied.
    “Sure,”
Macfearson answered.
    “It is weird,
it’s like they’re some kind of super-human creatures.”
    “If they are
guarding some secret knowledge and expertise in such matters as
ours it would make sense why they devote so much of their time
here,”Macxermillio suggested. A plausible argument indeed, it felt
right.
    “You reckon?” I
demanded, despite my conviction. It was good to hear good news one
more time.
    “Well, it makes
sense. Then again they might be nothing more but lifelings and we could be wasting our time here,” He replied, not what I
hoped for.
    “Best we are
not on a race against time,” Macfearson sarcastically spoke.
    “Don’t forget
the calling is getting stronger with each moment. We are running
out of strength,” Macxermillio said.
     
2
     
    Staring at her,
I studied her. I figure if I wrote a poem about that moment it
would go something like this:
     
    I, the
ink,
Substance of subjectivity,
Staining and marking,
In shapes and sizes,
Without meaning or purpose.
You wield and mould me,
Give me purpose.
In truth, I am sheer nothingness.
    Perhaps not an
embodiment of the moment, but an embodiment of the nature of my
relationship with her. I felt it there more than ever. Alone
although in company. Why does it even matter? Sometimes I asked
myself. There is no company without a bond, Macxermillio would
insist. No relationship without trust, no trust without
empathy.
    “I have
something on my mind,” I told her, sighing. Settled in the chair,
stubbed my elbow on the arm and rested my left cheek on my
left-hand’s palm. Crossed my left leg over my right. Then gave her
the look.
    “Okay,” she
gestured for me to go ahead. Her nod attentive and distinct as
ever. For an unknown reason I disliked that. It was quite similar
to when a parent offers to hear a child’s point of view only to
disagree with them or, worse, punish them for their transgression
anyway. There was something already decided and made up about
it.
    “Me and my
friend we used to do this thing. We would fuck each other in the
butt. When it was his turn I would hardly feel him in my hole. But
I pretended to until he finished. When it was my turn I would zone
him. Zone him hard. He would wince and moan,” I paused trying to
remember why I was telling her that.
    “Okay,” she
frowned. I couldn’t tell if it was from disgust or shock.
    “You see there
was trust between us. We continued doing it because there was trust
between us. The problem is I don’t know how he could have felt if
he knew that I was the one truly fucking him all this time. I used
the trust against him, to use him. Any emotion a person invests can
always be used for better or worse. Right or wrong. You see … it’s
because of this revelation that I came across an idea. The idea is
that empathy is necessary. Being able to put yourself in the other
person’s shoes in a way turns you into that person for a moment.
Then from there you will know how to treat them fairly or right.
When you put yourself in their shoes their problems become your
problems, and you helping them seems like actually helping yourself
out. You do it out of genuine concern, because in that moment you
are the one facing the barrel. Do you get that? Am I making any
sense?” I said.
    “What you seem
to be saying is that in any relationship empathy is important for
the parties involved. It leads to healthier more productive
relationships,” she replied.
    “Yeah,
exactly.”
    “Sandy, seems
like you have a lot of insight there. You have been doing a lot of
thinking. May I ask why you bringing this up now?” she
murmured.
    I shifted in my
chair, changing my posture. “Because I want to know if you really
care about me. That what you are doing here with me is not just a
job for you but you actually are interested and involved, Cheryl,”
fingers clenched together I lowered my gaze to her lap. She stroked
her pen smoothly, her hands resting on the