Blades of icy wind carved into my flesh on the cold December morning. One would think the large buildings of Major City, huddled together like penguins in the Arctic would provide some relief from the weather. But Mother Nature was a cruel and heartless Bi-, sorry, language, my bad.
As I turned the corner of the street I, Brutus, came upon my proverbial Caesar; Old man Withers. Withers lay prostrate upon a throne of cardboard and old fast food wrappers; holding his pet greyhound like the Virgin Mary in La Pieta. I sighed and steeled myself, this would be the third day in a row I passed my old friend, and it would be the third day in a row where I would deny him the money he needed for his dog's medication.
As I passed his face the color of dirty gray snow eyed me:
"Jack, please, can you spare some change?"
I opened my mouth to recite my line, but something was different this time. His eyes, those damn eyes, like a prosecuting attorney staring into the cold, dead eyes of a murderer broke me on the inside. A blazing fire of truth burned me to my very core and threatened to engulf me. And thus I spoke:
"I can, but I won't."
Wither's eyes widened in shock.
"The truth is I need someone like you to exist to make me feel better about myself. If I gave you money, then your life would be ever so slightly better, and if your life; the life of a beggar cold and hungry on the street, was better or even happy? then I would have to acknowledge that my life is not better or happy and the whole facade would crumble away and I might actually look at you like you were human."
I was shocked at what I just said, but Withers was more shock. His face a mask of confusion melding into shock and then anger. He started to rise slowly and flicked a pocket knife from his pocket. Taking the subtle hint I decided to run.
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