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    #1

    The Lonely Wolf, part four

    This is the fourth part of my short story, The Lonely Wolf. Would you please correct my mistakes.

    I have to admit that I did not just sit howling and doing nothing to change my situation. I sought help from the professionals, men and women who were educated to understand and help human souls. Unfortunately, their knowledge and experience were powerless when confronted by my pain. They sat in front of me like children seeing a strange living thing that they would never understand. Their books and professors never taught them about it, their therapy methods had no solution for my problems. They were baffled but wore their masks of kindness and understanding. They would never admit defeat and tell the patient that they were incapable to help him. Instead, they were talking about time and healing, which was going to take years, although they themselves must have known that my wounds were never going to heal. Whenever they met me they gave me a broad smile but that was a theatre. Actually, they felt like a patient visiting a dentist who was going to extract his teeth without anaesthetic. On one occasion, a young psychologist suddenly turned crimson when I told her about my inner plight. She cringed, pressed her stomach with her hands, and then suddenly, jumped up and ran outside. She returned a few minutes later, apologizing for not being able to control her inner organs. At least she vomited, while I had to carry my vomit inside me all the time. I never saw her again, and I did not blame her for her absence. Her peaceful and quiet existence had suddenly encountered something inexplicable and frightening that had shaken the foundations of her world. Surely, the man in front of her could not have been alive. He was a spectre from another universe, a nightmare, which had taken the shape of the human body. It was impossible for a human being to carry inside so much suffering and walk the earth as if everything was all right. It would be impossible falling to pieces and decomposing while laughing and joking at the same time.

    The psychiatrists and psychologists gave up one after another. After all, they were just ordinary men and women. They could not risk their own health and lives because of someone who was already written off as a hopeless case. True, they had to follow certain ethical rules and laws, but nobody could force them to expose themselves to a man whose negative feelings were a health hazard for anyone who encountered him.
    Some well-meaning people advised me to try women. They told me that women do wonders when it comes to emotions. Their compassion is boundless; their love has enormous power; the touch of their gentle fingers can heal the deepest wounds. I decided to give it a go. I bought some nice clothes, polished my shoes, cut my hair and shaved off my beard. One Saturday evening I went outside and found myself in a nightclub, surrounded by dozens of beautiful women, who were dancing, jumping, laughing, shouting and drinking. They were a sight to behold, and I sat in the corner sipping my beer and enjoying the scene. These long, blond nymphs stirred something inside me. Their slender bodies and their movements aroused feelings that lay dormant since my teenager years. It felt warmth and pleasure, and in one moment, I had a wish to join them and dance with them. However, my inner voice warned me that what I saw was an illusion. These beauties were under the influence of alcohol and it was Saturday evening when everything was permitted. “Just wait for the Monday morning,” it said, “you’ll see them again, and this time, however, they’ll not be so kind and merry. They will be rushing to their jobs, afraid of others and themselves.”

    At the closing time, a middle-aged woman came up to me and took me by the hand. I cannot explain why I had not made any resistance. I followed her willingly outside, and we walked the empty streets. It was cold and I could see my own breath swirling and dispersing in front of me. Her breath smelled of alcohol, and her clothes exuded a sweet scent. She held my hand all the time until we came to her flat. She opened the door of her bedroom and told me to take off my clothes while she went to the toilet. I did what she told me and lay naked under the duvet, looking at the pink walls of the room and some paintings done with an unskilled child’s hand. (Later, she would explain to me that she lived with a young daughter, who this weekend was with her father. Her paintings and drawings were all over the flat.) She returned completely naked without showing any sign of embarrassment, as if she had known me for years. Her body was not beautiful. She had short, thick legs and was overweight. She lay beside me and started caressing me. She was whispering something I could not understand and uttering some kind of purr, like a cat. She tried to arouse me, but I was not in the mood for sex. Her breath, sagging breasts, rolls of fat around her hips and stomach, filled me rather with disgust than desire. “Man, what are you doing beside this woman?” my inner voice asked me. How many men had already passed through this bed? How many sweaty bodies had pressed each other under this duvet in the hope of achieving the ultimate orgasm and satisfaction?

    “Don’t worry,” she said, “such things happen sometimes. You just need to relax.” She stood up telling me she was going to cook something. “When you stomach gets some food, you’ll see how blood circulates in your veins,” she said and disappeared into the kitchen. I immediately threw away the duvet and dressed myself up as fastest as I could. I slinked through the door and when I went outside, I started running. My pain was already a heavy burden on me and I could not take on this woman’s predicament. She felt like an impenetrable darkness, which would swallow me alive and keep me in that darkness forever. It would be worse than death.
    TO BE CONTINUED

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    #2

    Re: The Lonely Wolf, part four

    Quote Originally Posted by Bassim View Post
    This is the fourth part of my short story, The Lonely Wolf. Would you please correct my mistakes.

    I have to admit that I did not just sit howling and doing nothing to change my situation. I sought help from the (This is where articles get complex in English. "the professionals" means about the same as "professionals") professionals, men and women who were educated to understand and help human souls. Unfortunately, their knowledge and experience were powerless when confronted by my pain. They sat in front of me like children seeing a strange living thing that they would never understand. Their books and professors never taught them about it, their therapy methods had no solution for my problems. They were baffled but wore their masks of kindness and understanding. They would never admit defeat and tell the patient that they were incapable to help him. Instead, they were talking about time and healing, which was going to take years, although they themselves must have known that my wounds were never going to heal. Whenever they met me they gave me a broad smile but that was a (I would change this to -"..a broad smile that was but theatre) theatre. Actually, they felt like a patient visiting a dentist who was going to extract his teeth without anaesthetic. On one occasion, a young psychologist suddenly turned crimson when I told her about my inner plight. She cringed, pressed her stomach with her hands, and then suddenly, jumped up and ran outside. She returned a few minutes later, apologizing for not being able to control her inner organs. At least she vomited, while I had to carry my vomit inside me all the time. I never saw her again, and I did not blame her for her absence. Her peaceful and quiet existence had suddenly encountered something inexplicable and frightening that had shaken the foundations of her world. Surely, the man in front of her could not have been alive. He was a spectre from another universe, a nightmare, which had taken the shape of the a human body. It was impossible for a human being to carry inside so much suffering inside and walk the earth as if everything was all right. It would be impossible, falling to pieces and decomposing while laughing and joking at the same time.

    The psychiatrists and psychologists gave up one after another. After all, they were just ordinary men and women. They could not risk their own health and lives because of someone who was already written off as a hopeless case. True, they had to follow certain ethical rules and laws, but nobody could force them to expose themselves to a man whose negative feelings were a health hazard for anyone who encountered him.
    Some well-meaning people advised me to try women. They told me that women do wonders when it comes to emotions. Their compassion is boundless; their love has enormous power; the touch of their gentle fingers can heal the deepest wounds. I decided to give it a go. I bought some nice clothes, polished my shoes, cut my hair and shaved off my beard. One Saturday evening I went outside and found myself in a nightclub, surrounded by dozens of beautiful women, who were dancing, jumping, laughing, shouting and drinking. They were a sight to behold, and I sat in the corner sipping my beer and enjoying the scene. These long, blond nymphs stirred something inside me. Their slender bodies and their movements aroused feelings that had lay dormant since my teenager years. It I felt warmth and pleasure, and in one moment, I had a wish to join them and dance with them. However, my inner voice warned me that what I saw was an illusion. These beauties were under the influence of alcohol and it was Saturday evening when everything was permitted. “Just wait for the until Monday morning,” it said, “you’ll see them again, and this time, however, they’ll not be so kind and merry. They will be rushing to their jobs, afraid of others and themselves.”

    At the (I know, I know. The more common phrase is without "the") closing time, a middle-aged woman came up to me and took me by the hand. I cannot explain why I had did not made any resistance. I followed her willingly outside, and we walked the empty streets. It was cold and I could see my own breath swirling and dispersing in front of me. Her breath smelled of alcohol, and her clothes exuded a sweet scent. She held my hand all the time until we came to her flat. She opened the door of her bedroom and told me to take off my clothes while she went to the toilet (Use "bathroom" a toilet is more for biological needs). I did what she told me and lay naked under the duvet, looking at the pink walls of the room and some paintings done with by an unskilled child’s hand. (Later, she would explain to me that she lived with a young daughter, who this weekend was with her father. Her paintings and drawings were all over the flat.) She returned completely naked without showing any sign of embarrassment, as if she had known me for years. Her body was not beautiful. She had short, thick legs and was overweight. She lay beside me and started caressing me. She was whispering something I could not understand and uttering some kind of purr, like a cat. She tried to arouse me, but I was not in the mood for sex. Her breath, sagging breasts, rolls of fat around her hips and stomach, filled me rather with disgust than desire. “Man, what are you doing beside this woman?” my inner voice asked me. How many men had already passed through this bed? How many sweaty bodies had pressed each other under this duvet in the hope of achieving the ultimate orgasm and satisfaction?

    “Don’t worry,” she said, “such things happen sometimes. You just need to relax.” She stood up telling me she was going to cook something. “When you stomach gets some food, you’ll see how blood circulates in your veins,” she said and disappeared into the kitchen. I immediately threw away the duvet and dressed myself up as fastest fast as I could. I slinked through the door and when I went outside, I started running. My pain was already a heavy burden on me and I could not take on this woman’s predicament. She felt like an impenetrable darkness, which would swallow me alive and keep me in that darkness forever. It would be worse than death.
    TO BE CONTINUED
    Gil

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    #3

    Re: The Lonely Wolf, part four

    Dear Gil,

    Thank you.

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