Empath ( Feedback Welcome )

[Virgo Alandreas]

This is the second draft of the first chapter of a story I'm currently writing. It is an original story, so the story and characters belong to me. Anyways, let me know what you think, and I'll see about putting more of it up eventually.  

[Virgo Alandreas]

1.

We live in a cynical world.

These were the words that echoed through Michael Morris’s weary mind as he slowly trod through the Windy City’s slums. The street was narrow, not out of poor design but rather because of the clutter that had come to control the sides of the street with uncontested authority, clutter that included rust-covered cars that were now useless for any function other than that of a lawn ornament – not that any residents of this part of the city actually owned a lawn, – shopping carts, discarded packaging, and the occasional human being. There was no lighting aside from the few windows that were lit from within and the soft glow of the moon.

We live in a cynical world.

Unlike most denizens of this little piece of Hell on Earth, Michael Morris moved with purpose. He was going to Joe’s bar to have a drink. Of course, “Joe’s Bar” was not the establishment’s official name. It had no official name. Joseph Peterson, the owner and bartender, possessed no license to sell liquor, or any other form of alcoholic beverage. The authorities gave him no trouble simply because the authorities who knew the slums existed didn’t care enough to put them on the map, much less search for illegal alcohol retailers.

We live in a cynical world.

Upon hearing such a statement, the average American would nod solemnly in agreement, grunt something unintelligible, and offer stunningly compelling evidence that we also live in an apathetic world. Michael Morris was not an average American. He didn’t take the world’s cynicism on faith. He didn’t have to. It was always around him. He could smell it, taste it. For as long as he could remember, he had lived his life surrounded by a miasma of cynicism, pain, and bitterness. Not his own, for he had none of his own, but that of others.

Michael Morris was an almost compulsive recluse, a casual liar, and a heavy drinker. He was also an empath, as well as an amnesiac. He had awoken in the outskirts of Chicago one summer day with no money, no identification other than a folded piece of loose-leaf with his name and date of birth written on it, and no emotions. He quickly found that the world had more than enough emotions to lend him a few. It took him slightly longer to discover that this wasn’t always a good thing. The world, after all, is not a happy place. It is not filled with cheerful, pleasant people, and on the rare occasion that Michael did find someone who was genuinely cheerful and pleasant, his conscience would not allow him to take that person’s cheerfulness for himself, but only to bask in its radiance for a few blissful moments or minutes, depending on circumstances. Some people have said, and will say again, that empaths are depraved, subhuman creatures who delight in siphoning all that is enjoyable out of a man, leaving only his darkness and pain. Those people do not know Michael Morris. In his rather unique moral code, taking a man’s happiness is worse than taking his life. In his eyes, it is the ultimate sin. Michael fears that he will commit that sin more than he fears death. Which is not to say that he is an overtly religious person, but merely that he knows his own weaknesses and doesn’t much mind the idea of eternal rest, if there is such a thing. It is this fear that brought him to this place, a place where the idea of him stealing another man’s happiness is only slightly more ridiculous than the idea of him finding a man who has any happiness. Endless misery, however, is exhausting for any man, and Michael felt the misery of every tenement dweller. And so, he was going to Joe’s for a little relief. We live in a cynical world, and though Michael abhorred being a drunkard, he was worldly enough to realize that without the drink, he would drown in sorrow.

He moved with the sullen familiarity of a longtime resident. His dark trench coat, combined with the shadowy streets, made him all but invisible. His trench had marked him as a man of comparative wealth in the slums and made him the target of quite a few attempted muggings, but he liked it anyway. It gave him an admittedly irrational feeling of anonymity, which is something that a man of his talents rarely tastes. The street split into a T intersection ahead, with a low wooden building just behind the junction. It was more or less identical to every other building on the block, but its patrons knew better than to judge by appearance. Without bothering to watch for traffic – who could afford a working car here? – Michael crossed the street and slipped into Joe’s. The namesake, an elderly man with patchy white hair and wrinkled hands, stood behind the bar washing out used glasses.

“What’ ya been up to, Mike?” he asked without turning around.

“Just the usual, Joe,” Michael replied coolly as he took a seat at the bar. He was used to Joe – and everyone else – recognizing his presence instantly. Whenever Michael walked into a room, everyone else’s troubles seemed the slightest bit lighter. Only Joe knew he was an empath. The others described him by a myriad of titles including angel, demon, and plain old nice guy. “Any new jobs for me?”

Joe nodded solemnly. “The guy dropped by yesterday, asked for you by name,” he said in a low voice.

Michael’s eyes narrowed. His business was empathy. He’d take emotional baggage off the hands of the well-off, for a price. The poverty-stricken slum residents got the same service free, but he didn’t tell his clients that. It might be bad for business. In nine years of covertly selling inner peace, he’d stuck closely to two absolute rules: never sell happiness, and never give his name. As far as he knew, he had no official records. No one had ever contacted him for any governmental purpose, not even Selective Services. Yet someone had asked for him by name. “Where is he now?”

“Mike, ya can’t mean-”

“Where?”

“I’m tellin’ ya, I don’t trust-”

“Where?”

Joe raised his hands helplessly. “He’s in the back, been waitin’ there for ya. But I tell ya, he’s nothin’ but trouble.”

Michael rose from his seat and gave Joe an amiable pat on the shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Joe,” he said in a voice just loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. “Nothing for me tonight.” Ignoring Joe’s protests and the other patrons’ stares, he strode casually across the room to the back door, yanked it open, and stepped out into the night.  

[Otulissa]

I like how you italicized "We live in a cynical world" and repeated it to give it emphasis. It seems sort of like you are stressing the theme, or the problem of the story at the very beginning. You definitely made it clear. 3nodding I like how you wrote it in that format! The sentence is so simple, yet it conveys so much.

Michael Morris, the empath, seems very interesting. 3nodding I have read a bit about empaths in articles and such...but I have one question: Do empaths exist in real life? XD;; Just curious.

What's the genre of your story? I can't really tell... Is it sci-fi? Realistic Fiction/Drama? Or is it something of the supernatural?  

[Virgo Alandreas]

Empaths, as I define them, do not exist. I wouldn't call this story sci-fi, as it takes place in the near future (within 50 years) and there are few noticable advances in technology. I would say it's closer to realistic fiction. Also, empathy in this story is scientific, not supernatural. More will be explained in the next chapter.  

[SpunkyOtaku]

Fair enough, I'll wait until next chapter then before any questions. From what I can tell so far, you seem to give enough detail of the world to give us a feel for the story, at least in this region. Otuliss has already said a fair share, so there are just two things I feel I have to really mention:

The fourth paragraph (I'm nixing 'we live in a cynical world' when I count) seems a bit long. I don't mean necessarily information wise, because much of that stuff is important to mention. I just mean on the personal habits of Michael Morris, like how he is a recluse, liar and drinker, or even his code on taking another man's happiness. Perhaps you can experiment with showing that more through actions and event in the story as opposed to just telling it in a paragraph. Maybe something to work with in future chapters or something.

Oh, and we don't know what he looks like. Unless that's not important.  

[Otulissa]

Yeah, I couldn't really picture Michael since you didn't describe his appearance. XD;; But I kind of liked the mysterious feel of it, though. When I imagine Michael Morris, I see a shadowy figure. ^_^ If that's what you want, then great! If not, you should add in something. XD;;