Recorded Story
Matthew Ryan Fischer
“Tell me your story…”
He listened. He recorded.
He was not a doctor. He was not a psychiatrist. He was not a
biographer.
He listened. He recorded.
Was he helping them or hurting them? He wasn’t sure. All he did
was listen and record it. People assured him there was something there. Maybe
it was like absolution. Maybe it was a cleansing ritual. Maybe he was an
eraser. Maybe that was what he gave them. A fresh start. Free from the past.
Free from before. Then there was only the present or the future. But the sins,
the pains, the ‘whatever’ from the past was gone.
That’s what he thought he was doing anyway.
Men always talked about women. The loves. The losses. The ones
they would go back to. Even if it was just for one more night. But the ones
that always seemed to mean the most were the ones that got away. The ones they
wished they could have had. There was always some trade, some deal, some
mistake, or some compromise. There was always the thing they would do now, just
for that once upon a time chance. It didn’t matter how rich or successful the
man. They could be happily married with children. They always talked with
regret. There was always at least one story, one woman, one love that could
have been. Maybe that was human nature. Maybe that was men. Maybe people just
wanted to be heard, to have someone relate and understand. But let them talk
long enough and they always got around to some woman.
He cried. He listened to the recordings and cried. The sorrow they
felt was his sorrow. The loss was his loss. He was an empath and it tore him up
inside. Their pain was placated and pardoned. But he still felt it. He still
lived it.
He cried.
And then he cleaned himself up and put the recording away. He cleared
his mind and tried to move on. It was a futile hope, he knew, but he always had
to try.
The tapes sat on a shelf, waiting, wanting to be played again, to
be heard.
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