But I've no interest in helping X—none at all. Good grief, I've helped enough people before now, haven't I? And much good it's done me. Don't you remember the last time I really went all out for someone—remember how that turned out?
I'm sick and tired of being nice. Is that such a terrible thing? I mean, I've no desire to start robbing banks, but at the same time I've no more interest in X's problems than I have in Jackson Pollock's. So X needs help. Borrrrrr-ing. So call me Scrooge. Someone else take care of X please, while I catch up on my sleep.
Of course I'm bitter. I'm wondering when it's going to be my turn. Seriously though. I might as well be a hermit. Who's going to let me cry on their shoulder? Or explain the doctrine of ultratorridmaxihyperlinealization that troubles my conscience? Where's my big brother, hm?
Do you refer to Orwell or to Cain?
Hem. So you are there.
Orwell or Cain?
You know what I mean.
Of course I know what you mean; you mean what I made you to mean. But I wonder whether you know what you mean.
You're trying to say I don't know what I'm saying.
Not trying, Little Rabbit.
You really want me to do it, don't you? To stick my neck out for someone again? And what happens to me when their problem is solved? where do I go then?
You can always come back to me. You've done that before.
But Lord, you never said you'd be all I had. I'm not a hermit or—
I thought you said a moment ago that you might as well be.
Well, yes, for all the good I get out of helping people, I might as well be.
The good that YOU get out of helping people?
I thought you said I was going to live a normal life. Normal job, normal friends, normal marriage, normal kids, normal death (provided Judgment Day doesn't come first)—how am I supposed to be normal when other people's problems keep hopping into my lap?
I don't recall using the word "normal." I recall telling you you didn't have a religious vocation.
That's makes me normal, right?
My mother didn't have a "religious vocation". She was not exactly what you'd call "normal" either.
Um, no, but that was because she was—you know—your mother!
Have I said something wrong?
OK, correct me then. I really have no clue what I'm talking about. I always assumed she was different because ... well ... because of you.
All the saints are different.
But I'm not—
But you said you wanted to be.
Or have you changed your mind about that too?
But Lord, how can I ever keep from showing everyone what I really am?
Why would you ever do that, Little Rabbit?
Because—only look at me! I'm hurt, I'm angry; I don't really like anyone; all that I ever do is pretend to enjoy other people, and pretend to care about them. And if any one of them every found out what I really think and feel, they would ... Lord, I'm ugly.
Why would you say that about anything I have made?
Because it's true; I—
Yes, it's true your heart is wounded and bleeding. What did you expect to happen when you asked me to make it soft like mine? All I see when I look at it is myself. And I am not ugly to you, am I?
But my wounds aren't like yours; my wounds are my own; my wounds.
They were your wounds, but I have made them mine. You surrendered to me, and nothing that you have is yours any more—your goods, your loves, your sins, yes, they are all mine; and your heart is mine. And if anyone sees that heart, they will not see you there, but myself. Now, Little Rabbit, are you ready to carry me back out into the world?