Compassion

For those few who are interested in reading about the romance novel I've written, I'll give you a quick synopsis. The story is written from a guy's perspective, though its not the smut filled, pornographic book most would suspect. Rather, its about a guy writing a romance novel (thus the title) as he tries to find love himself. For him, this is not an easy task because he has self-esteem issues. And though the main character is not me, I've modeled the man after my experiences and the years of guy's things I've encountered. Also, intermixed within the story are tidbits of things I've written throughout the years which express the main characters views on the world, and thus a view into his personality. In the end, I think the book, as a whole, is cleverly done. Moreover, because it is so personal to me, I would not think of publishing it unless I've made the same changes in my life that he goes through (mostly).

Anyway, at the end of a book is a tidbit I wrote which is very heartfelt to me. Its a fantasy piece and doesn't reflect me, other than to demonstrate the depth of compassion a person endures. Here is a tiny bit of it which I've just re-written because it didn't read right. Enjoy...if you can:

My father, who out of spite named me Richard Dickless Johnson, thought he was being clever, my name representing the pinnacle of humor and depravity. To this day I go by Connor and he hates me for it, but he hates nearly everything this world has given him. His only love was my mother and he blames me for her death, though it was his fists which clubbed her to submission because she wouldn’t hand him a beer before she answered the telephone. Unfortunately, through both their eyes, I relive that moment in fear, hate, and love. It is a vision which haunts more of my life than any other and one I cannot let go of. Even to this day, I hate both of them for it.

As for my father, he secluded me within our trailer where I had no visitors which is a good thing considering my life at the time. I was kept inside a dog cage, fed scraps of his left over food, and not bathed or changed for days. In fact, I was shown no kindness or humanity at all and was beaten relentlessly until the age of three. Had it not been for the memories of the nurses and doctors within me, I would surely have turned into a monster bent on pain and hatred, but their strength and compassion allowed me to endure. It was only after a loud drunken fit by my father that Child Protective Services discovered me and took control of my life.