“It was this or suicide,” she said. “I don’t have a sad story. My parents are still married, they just had their thirty-fifth anniversary just last month. I have two older brothers, I know they would do anything for me. Some time ago, man, we were still in high school. I had this bully, everyone does, they didn’t hate me or target me specifically. This bully was known for his bullying, let’s just say that.”

“Well, he’d never really messed with me before but for some reason that Friday he decided to pull my hair. I screamed. I wasn’t expecting it. I was reading a book, I don’t remember the title. I was so surprised though, and it really hurt. The bully laughed and laughed while I sat there crying. I wouldn’t consider myself weak and I wasn’t going to sit there and let him hurt me so I stood up to defend myself. Now that I think about it, I don’t know what I was going to do.” She laughed to herself.

“Before I could do anything though, my brothers were standing behind this behemoth of a child. I didn’t have to say anything, and they didn’t. To give you some context this bully was built like a barn and my brothers were more in line with young trees in the spring. They weren’t fighters or anything. They had numbers on their side, though. No one spoke a word, but my eldest brother grabbed the bully’s hand and put their fingertips laid out on my desk, leaving the palm of their hand overhanging the ground. Then my other brother punched his hand. The sound of his fingers breaking was one of the most satisfying sounds I’d ever heard. Needless to say, that bully never picked on anyone ever again.” The girl in front of me looked to be somewhere in her early twenties. She was tall and scrawny, with barely any meat. She was wearing a big sweater and thick pants; most people did when they came to see me. Her pink hat was different though. Most people had orange or blue.

“Anyways, they always did things like that, so I know I’m loved by them. My parents have always been there for me too. They constantly try to support me, not monetarily, but with words of encouragement and attending all of my sporting events and things like that. All of that is to say, there’s no reason for me to feel this way.”

“Feel what way,” I asked. “Please, explain.”

“I don’t know what to call it,” she said, looking away from me. “It’s like a combination of hopelessness, apathy, and anger. It lives in my chest. I can feel it. Sometimes it stirs and moves to my head, making me think things. Like what if I died right now or what if I killed my family? Then there are days when it moves to my mouth. It has a horrible taste, and it reflects when I speak to people. I’m mean, I’m hurtful and I don’t know why. On those days my mouth will talk faster than my brain can comprehend. At the end of conversations, after I’ve completely torn a person down, I’m left wondering why I said those things. Sometimes it’s so vile, I wonder if the conversation even happened, because I don’t believe I would say something like that to another human.”

“You feel like you don’t have control,” I said sincerely.

“Yeah, I suppose. There are days when it moves to my legs. I end up in the worst places, trashy bars, meth houses, and an ex’s house who was too good for me.” Her voice trailed off like she had just come to this realization. “Some days it moves to my hands, this feeling. Those days my hands are numb, I know they’re not mine. When I work on a project, anything really, I know I’ve ruined it. Like, at my parent’s anniversary party. I was in charge of a very simple task, making a side dish to go along with their main course. The day I made it, the feeling was in my hands. The dish I made completely clashed with their main dish. They did not go well at all.”

“I know you’re thinking, well that’s such a small thing. Most likely a mistake, or an accident. And even if it wasn’t, it’s such a small aspect of life. Why would I worry about it? Why would I be so concerned over something so minuscule? Did I hurt anyone? No. Did anyone even say anything to me about it being horrible? No. Maybe that’s the worst part about it. I don’t know. I did do it on purpose though, and still, no one cared. No one really ate it. Maybe it was me trying to act out? But, what for? I’m not a bad person. I try to do the most good no matter the consequences, but the outcome never seems to fall in my favor. It might be because sometimes I don’t actually do the right thing…” Her voice trailed off again.

I felt this was going in the wrong direction. “So, let’s start getting to the point,” I said, changing the subject. “What seems to be your issue, your problem, or your deepest desire from life?” She took a moment and thought. The cold air burned the sides of her face. That doesn’t happen frequently. No one spends enough time out here to get hurt by the wind. Sometimes on the north-facing side of the mountain people would get caught in bad storms. Those individuals would have burns on their faces like hers, but in the last few weeks, there were no storms. How long has she been out here?

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“I don’t have a problem!” she yelled out at me. It was unexpected. “Don’t you get it? That’s what’s wrong. I wake up every morning and do the same exact thing I’ve been doing for the last ten years. Nothing ever changes, and if it does, I don’t feel anything from it. I lay down at night feeling alone, whether or not someone is in the bed with me. It doesn’t matter how nice someone is to me. I’ll hurt them. I’ll ruin them. I don’t know how, but it just happens. I work a job, one most people would kill for, and it’s not even that hard or special. But I still feel no satisfaction. I sometimes wonder, ‘what if’. I daydream of living a horrible life and being mistreated, not because of some sick fetish, but because maybe then I could explain why I feel the way I do. I feel horrible all the time. Sick to my stomach, at the thought of repeating another day. I have no purpose and I know the world would not remember me. I don’t know what I desire, because it’s pretty much nothing. I just want to feel. I just want to be able to desire. It’s like I was born without that spark that drives people. No, not the spark, but the wick. There’s nothing to light, and what remains is anger.”

I didn’t know what to say. I could see her breath with each exhale. To me, this did not look like a woman without a drive, without desire. It was just harnessed in the wrong part of her spirit. Maybe that meant something, maybe it didn’t. “I think I understand,” I said to her softly.

“I don’t think you could,” she said, turning away from me. “I mean look at you. You sit there and listen to us tell our stories, and you help all these people. You have a purpose and a reason for being alive. What do I have? A boring life? A bland apartment? When does this feeling end? That’s why I’m here. If this doesn’t help, then I don’t know what I’ll do. I think though, I’m not even strong enough to end my own life. Saying it out loud makes me shiver. But, would I feel something then? Would the constant pounding headache of life, then be felt by someone other than me? I know I’m not alone. That doesn’t mean someone cares about me.”

I watched her take her gloves off and adjust her hair underneath her hat. She had long brown hair. She was actually quite beautiful. I understood why it was easy for her to hurt people. If I wasn’t stuck here in this cave, who knows what kind of life I could try to give her. Would I then be hurt by her like the way she describes? I guess it didn’t matter, there was no point in me wondering what life could be; my life was already predestined to be lived here.

“What do you need from me,” she asked. “I’m ready to get on with it.” I stood up from my blanket.

“I think I’ve got all the information I need,” I responded. Truth be told I don’t really know how this all works. I think one time someone explained it to me, but I’ve long forgotten those stories. “I’ve got what you need right here.” From beside me, I grabbed the small bowl. The woman in below me looked up at it. She didn’t believe me, no one ever did.

“Is that really it?” she asked.

“Of course,” I responded. “Now come to me and take it from me. All you have to do is take this bowl scoop from the pond in front of you and then return the bowl to me. That’s it.”

She stood there thinking it over. Then she hesitantly walked up the stairs to me. As she was, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. She didn’t deserve the life she was living. I hoped that this would help her. Most people come here asking for money or fame, not many come for problems they’re dealing with, and even less come seeking guidance in life. I turned to her and held the bowl out so she could grab it. She took it and looked me in the eyes. I wonder what she thought of at that moment because she held her stare for longer than expected. She took the bowl from my hand and walked back to the pond.

She dunked her hand and the bowl into the water. It was warm. Her hand was steaming when she brought the bowl to her face. She looked up to me, and asked, “are you sure this is going to help?” I nodded but, I really didn’t know. That wasn’t my purpose. I was put here to listen to her request and to lend the bowl, but only after I’d felt I heard enough. Still, she stared at me, pondering whether or not she could trust me. Then she drank.

She stood there for a moment after just staring at nothing. This was normal, but then something very strange happened. The look of anger and discomfort that had been on her face this whole time slowly morphed into a smile. It kept changing until it was a distorted look of happiness.

“Did you get what you wanted?” I asked. I don’t ever ask this. It’s none of my business, but I was concerned for her. She took the bowl and set it at the foot of the stairs. Without looking at me she left the cave through its only entrance. I knew I’d never see her again, and I also knew I’d never forget her. I would forever wonder what happened to her. I walked down the stairs and retrieved the bowl. Most people left it down there. I enjoyed the little bit of exercise.

“You can come in!” I yelled to the next person waiting outside in the cold.