The Burden of the Damned

Both of them were sitting in a coffee bar on tables opposite each other. Both of them were pretending to wait for someone else. However, both were alone. Both were damaged. Both were scarred. But they had fought on. They had come out winning, with trumpets blaring.

A third person passed between them. Both admired the beauty of the third. Then they saw each other. And a smile came across both their faces. Though they had never met each other and probably would never meet again, on this night, with the raindrops pouring outside, they felt connected. Connected because of who they were. Connected because of how they were born. They knew. Yes, they knew.

Their story is not new. This could have happened a 100, 500 or a 1000 years ago. Just the place and the surrounding would be different. The admiration would be the same, the loneliness would be the same, and the want to be fulfilled would be the same. The desire to be loved, to have someone bear witness to their ordinary, ordinary lives, would be the same.

People like them had been persecuted by Kings, by Presidents, by Men who supposedly represented God on earth. Stoned to death while hundreds watched. Burnt to ashes, with no one willing to put out the fire. Condemned. To be left alone in the wilderness, never to be heard from again. To be disowned by friends, family and society. To see the people who they loved all their life, turn their backs on them one by one. To be blamed for ruining other people's lives. To have a stigma attached to their name.

Sitting their in the coffee bar, they said nothing to each other. But the silence spoke. The silence that washed over them, the silence that filled the gap between their fingers. The silence that said it all.

As they sat there, talking in silence, they carried the burden within them. Just as people like them had carried it for centuries. The burden of the damned.