Bassim
VIP Member
- Joined
- Mar 1, 2008
- Member Type
- Student or Learner
- Native Language
- Bosnian
- Home Country
- Bosnia Herzegovina
- Current Location
- Sweden
Would you please correct the mistakes in the second part of my short story?
David worked with young offenders all his working life. When he was unable to help himself, he could at least help wayward young people. They were like his sons and daughters. Some of them even called him Daddy. He always tried to be helpful, avoiding conflicts at all costs and staying calm when confronted with the aggressive thugs. He would advice them to learn to love themselves because, as he used to tell them, “If you don’t love yourself, you won’t be able to love others”. They would listen in silence, hanging on his words and say that nobody had ever discussed such matters with them before. He was filled with pain, but spread hope and joy and was popular by many. On his last day on the job, there were hugs, tears and well-wishes.
After his retirement, David had a lot of time on his hands. He became a voracious reader. He wanted to know how others dealt with their sorrow and pain. How authors of fiction conveyed those feeling, which are different and subjective for every human? What psychologists and scientists said? Religious and wise men? Then he turned to the extreme experiences, testimonies of the prisoners in the Nazi death camps, the authors Primo Levi, Viktor Frankl, Witold Pilecki, Jean Améry, and many others. He read Solzhenitsyn, Shalamov and Bardach and their accounts of the life in Gulags. He wanted to vomit when he realised what people did to each other in Bosnia and Syria when they lost their humanity and were influenced by hatred. While reading all those books brimming with suffering, torture and misery, David’s pain eased. Compared with what all those people had gone through, his pain and loss were insignificant. Many of them had forgiven their torturers, but not Jean Améry, and David wondered if Bea would have forgiven him if she by a miracle could come along.
He hoped he would hear her voice telling him that everything was forgiven, but it never happened. In one of the dreams, she was in a white robe, holding hand of a little child. They were walking across the meadow while the first light of dawn shone over the hills. As they came up, she said, “David, this is your son.” David knelt on the dewy grass and looked into his large grey eyes. The child smiled. David was overwhelmed with love. “Son,” he said and stretched out his hand to touch him, but at that moment, they both vanished. He woke up with tears in his eyes and the ache in the pit of his stomach. After that, he would go to bed every evening willing to see the continuation of the dream, wanting to touch that boy and tell him how sorry he was, but Morpheus ignored his wish.
David discovered the park by chance, during one of his strolls through town. As he was trying not to bump into shoppers, youth staring at their smartphones, nervous mothers and their spoilt children, and stressful businesspersons, he heard the sound of water gurgling and went in its direction. He found the entrance in the shrubbery fence and, as he stood in front of a three-tiered fountain, his heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so calm. The splashing streams sparkling in the sun brightened him up, the feeling of guilt he had carried for decades eased. The scents of flowers and their bright colours invited him to sit down and take a rest. A few benches stood around the fountain, but he chose a lone one in the corner, close to the shrubbery fence. He sat down, leaned back, crossed his legs at his ankles, closed his eyes and took in all the scents and sounds. This is a miracle, he thought. I’ve never felt so relaxed before.
Then he opened the book and started reading more chapters about the suffering and pain that people inflicted on each other. After a while, he looked up and watched people strolling around: a young couple holding hands and kissing, another one teaching their toddler how to kick a ball, an old woman pushing a three-wheeled walker, and a few dogs and their owners. The thought occurred to him how harsh he had been towards himself. Instead of constantly punishing himself, he should be grateful for every moment of his life, for this glorious day, the tinkling of the fountain, the bird’s song, and all the impressions that he felt with his senses. This was the moment he had been waiting for for decades and was not sure if he would ever experience it in this life. He had finally forgiven himself.
THE END
David worked with young offenders all his working life. When he was unable to help himself, he could at least help wayward young people. They were like his sons and daughters. Some of them even called him Daddy. He always tried to be helpful, avoiding conflicts at all costs and staying calm when confronted with the aggressive thugs. He would advice them to learn to love themselves because, as he used to tell them, “If you don’t love yourself, you won’t be able to love others”. They would listen in silence, hanging on his words and say that nobody had ever discussed such matters with them before. He was filled with pain, but spread hope and joy and was popular by many. On his last day on the job, there were hugs, tears and well-wishes.
After his retirement, David had a lot of time on his hands. He became a voracious reader. He wanted to know how others dealt with their sorrow and pain. How authors of fiction conveyed those feeling, which are different and subjective for every human? What psychologists and scientists said? Religious and wise men? Then he turned to the extreme experiences, testimonies of the prisoners in the Nazi death camps, the authors Primo Levi, Viktor Frankl, Witold Pilecki, Jean Améry, and many others. He read Solzhenitsyn, Shalamov and Bardach and their accounts of the life in Gulags. He wanted to vomit when he realised what people did to each other in Bosnia and Syria when they lost their humanity and were influenced by hatred. While reading all those books brimming with suffering, torture and misery, David’s pain eased. Compared with what all those people had gone through, his pain and loss were insignificant. Many of them had forgiven their torturers, but not Jean Améry, and David wondered if Bea would have forgiven him if she by a miracle could come along.
He hoped he would hear her voice telling him that everything was forgiven, but it never happened. In one of the dreams, she was in a white robe, holding hand of a little child. They were walking across the meadow while the first light of dawn shone over the hills. As they came up, she said, “David, this is your son.” David knelt on the dewy grass and looked into his large grey eyes. The child smiled. David was overwhelmed with love. “Son,” he said and stretched out his hand to touch him, but at that moment, they both vanished. He woke up with tears in his eyes and the ache in the pit of his stomach. After that, he would go to bed every evening willing to see the continuation of the dream, wanting to touch that boy and tell him how sorry he was, but Morpheus ignored his wish.
David discovered the park by chance, during one of his strolls through town. As he was trying not to bump into shoppers, youth staring at their smartphones, nervous mothers and their spoilt children, and stressful businesspersons, he heard the sound of water gurgling and went in its direction. He found the entrance in the shrubbery fence and, as he stood in front of a three-tiered fountain, his heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so calm. The splashing streams sparkling in the sun brightened him up, the feeling of guilt he had carried for decades eased. The scents of flowers and their bright colours invited him to sit down and take a rest. A few benches stood around the fountain, but he chose a lone one in the corner, close to the shrubbery fence. He sat down, leaned back, crossed his legs at his ankles, closed his eyes and took in all the scents and sounds. This is a miracle, he thought. I’ve never felt so relaxed before.
Then he opened the book and started reading more chapters about the suffering and pain that people inflicted on each other. After a while, he looked up and watched people strolling around: a young couple holding hands and kissing, another one teaching their toddler how to kick a ball, an old woman pushing a three-wheeled walker, and a few dogs and their owners. The thought occurred to him how harsh he had been towards himself. Instead of constantly punishing himself, he should be grateful for every moment of his life, for this glorious day, the tinkling of the fountain, the bird’s song, and all the impressions that he felt with his senses. This was the moment he had been waiting for for decades and was not sure if he would ever experience it in this life. He had finally forgiven himself.
THE END