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"Watercolour" by sampleneopian
“What is it?” His voice came out hoarse, his words choked.
If his conversant was deterred, he didn’t sound like he was. “I saw what happened with those bullies.”
He said nothing.
“It isn’t wrong of you to feel the way you are feeling. No one can blame you for that.”
Again, he kept silent, though he continued to listen.
“But you have to pull yourself together, or things will just get worse.”
At this, he felt his temper rising, indignant that his conversant would dare undermine the severity of his problem. “And I suppose you know all about that?” His voice was a blade. It was over. The limit of his patience had been reached, and he wouldn’t take any more insults, direct or indirect. He stayed where he was, though, inviting his conversant to make a comeback just so he would have the satisfaction of winning the argument.
Of all the ways he expected his conversant to respond – a retort, a sigh, or a scowl, he did not foresee a hesitation. And a curious hesitation it was. Even with his back to him, he could tell that his conversant was not simply filling the moment with soundlessness, but vivid, unspeakable emotion. Whoever it was he was speaking to was going through a momentous memory of his own, an experience that meant as much, if not more than, the one he was going through then. Already his anger was fading, replaced by a mixture of curiosity and compassion that negated the negatives he was suffering and willed him to open his heart, for the sake of both of them. He turned around, almost in a trance, only to see none other than the Money Tree himself, looking startlingly dejected.
It was at this moment that his clock to evil stopped. He almost didn’t catch the reply, which was barely a whisper.
“Yes, I do.”
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