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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1151479
Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Spiritual · #1151479
Is it really fiction?
A man walking through an unfamiliar part of town, found himself surrounded by a mob of angry people.

The mob was made up of different races and nationalities. They were young, old, male and female.
The mob encircled him. He then asked them a simple question. “Why do you hate me?”
No one answered him directly. Instead their voices ringing out in unison, screamed insults at him.

The man did not show fear. He again asked in a normal tone. “Why do you hate me?”
The mob only grew more angry. They continued to move in closer around him until he could feel their spittle on his face, as they shouted, “I hate you!”

To onlookers, it would appear the stranger was soon to be torn to shreds by the mob.

The mob's temper had risen to their hottest. The strange man lifted his voice and bellowed like thunder. In a loud and powerful voice, showing no fear he said. “Why do you hate me? Is it because I am a man, or a woman. Is it because I am a child?”
“That cannot be the reason, you are seeing me as I am.”

“Is it because I am too short? Or am I too tall? That is too simple. So, I ask you, is it because I am old? Perhaps I am too young. Not old enough. Not young enough. I say no, that is not the reason, you can’t be that blind.

Is the reason you hate me because I am white or black, red or yellow. Or because of any of those combinations? To that I say No. You would have to think with a brain the size of an Asp.
Maybe it is because I am missing a limb, an eye or an ear. To that I would say, only the self centered and shallow would go to those depths.

Answer me, is it because I am Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, or one of the many different religions. I say not a chance since we all pray to someone, or something more powerful than our own selves.”

The mob was silent now. Some standing in the mob that encircled the stranger, had begun to question themselves and their motives.

The stranger seemed not to notice the silence, and continued to speak as he had before.
“I have pondered the questions that none of you appear to be able to answer. Or perhaps you are not willing to answer. The only answer that I can give you, is that you don’t hate me as much as you fear me. Why? It is simple. You don’t know me, therefore, you cannot trust me.”

A young man in the crowd shouted, “I hate you, and I will kill you.”
The stranger addressed the young man. “Kill me? That I am sure you can do, but in doing so, will you not be killing a part of yourself. Remember, you don’t know me, you only know of me. I have not shown you, in actions or words, that I have desires or plans to do you harm. What you are trying to kill, is the hate that resides within you. You are the host to a parasite called hate. It is feeding on your good nature. If you let it continue, it will grow until it fills your being completely. Then it will kill you. So, if you kill me, without just cause, I need only wait. In due time all of you will join me in death and consequences.’

The mob, now a large crowd, began to back away. It seemed they had gotten more, than they had bargained for. The stranger was not finished speaking. He spoke again, “The hate, of which you have accused me, is your hate. What you do to me, you also do to yourselves.

The stranger looked into the faces and eyes of those who were standing close to him. He saw confusion, shame and introspection. Saying no more, he lowered his head and began to walk through the crowd. As if on command, the crowd parted and let him pass. With no further harassment from the crowd, the stranger was gone. Within seconds of his departure a breeze commenced to blow. The breeze carried an old newspaper down the street. The paper caught onto a woman’s leg. When she reached down to brush it loose, something caught her eye. She picked up the paper. Holding it to the light, she gasped, and pushed her way toward the leader of the mob. Upon reaching him she pointed to the newspaper, and in an excited and agitated voice she exclaimed, “This is him! This is him! You can’t touch him.” The leader of the now, dispersing mob, took the paper and looked at the picture. The caption read, MAN BEATEN TO DEATH BY ANGRY MOB. All the people that saw the picture, and read the caption agreed that it was he.

From somewhere in the crowd, a loud voice yelled. “We can't kill a dead man twice.”
From another direction a woman screamed, “We will face him at our time of death. It is for us he waits."



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© Copyright 2006 Larone Mckinley (larone at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/1151479