The poor man had become, almost without thinking, a jailer. Not that it was that his true calling and that to which it aspires, but circumstances had pushed into this.
Throughout his life he was assembling a large collection of dark, until there were so many that need to locate somewhere. Then, one by one, carried them through a long narrow tunnel to enclose the cell.
And there he is now sitting on the outside of the fence, watching, watching. In cell crowding the objects of their resentment, their anger and their grief. There are all, some old and others more recent. All those who offended, left, prejudged, injured, ignored, cheated, beaten ... Confined, prisoners of their resentment.
He notes one by one, and it is as if everything revive, you can feel again the pain, humiliation, sadness. But still there, mumbling his anger without realizing that he himself is smitten like them.
Maybe he thought his prisoners to make them feel better, maybe I could feel vindicated perhaps believe that justice was served. But the sweet taste of revenge he dreamed is, in fact, a bitter taste that can not be removed. There is no satisfaction, no relief for pain and do not know how to get out.
can not let go, it would be unfair. So long ago that is there ... you know them well. Know their names. Remember every time, every circumstance and every day you pass along the tunnel to hold onto the railing and watched.
not win anything with this, he knows very well. Instead, his office of guardian must spend so much time and energy that do not fit like doing anything else. No plans, no life plans, no future ... Just go back and re- on the wounds of the past, over and over again, feeling a renewed pain and bleeding.
You look at the note. He is sick. You can see in every gesture, every line that bends like a deep groove to the chin. What irony! If even their prisoners seem to enjoy better health. After all, every day, visit and attend.
Instead he has been alone since the closest walked away as a result of the bitterness out of his mouth. Has persisted in spite and is paying a high price for it: loneliness and his own imprisonment ... And even if misses out of this situation, can not not know ... Or not?
A Sometimes, when fatigue overwhelms him, reaches into his pocket and pulls out the key. It is a small key with an inscription on its side: "Sorry" . The looks and spins in his hand, playing, watching, thinking ...
Slowly, like a distant echo coming from the hidden corners of his memory, words that come once recited as a child. And had almost forgotten: "... and forgive us our sins ... as we also have forgiven ..."
Sorry ... Sorry ... Forgiveness ...
The words seem to bounce off the narrow walls of the tunnel There are new changing echoes: "Be free ...! Let free ...!"
free ... Free them ... Free yourself ...
But how could I? Your feelings will scream against: "No, no, no! Do not you remember ...? Remember! Remember what I did! "
But that voice insists: " Use the key, use the pardon and then you'll be free ... Decide! No matter what you feel, because the act of forgiveness is not a feeling but a decision. Take it now! What are you waiting? Those old grudges are you killing ... Decide! "
The creaking of the gate to open almost surprised. He had done! After years and years to remove the knife in the wound, had used the key.
Reaches into the cell by a gesture that encourages them to leave, to leave there, and one by one from the notes. Singly, in pairs, until there are none, and as they move away feels as small and large wounds begin to heal. Slowly, slowly healing until they realize that memories do not hurt. He is healthy and is free at last. Look
empty cell and then turns to face the tunnel to walk the last time. See the key in his hand, the pockets it with a smile and leaves, light, comforted. Discovered in this small key, in that brief word, a huge power to set aside not think anymore.
