Catharsis

Catharsis, the Soothing Companion
"If you're wanting help, look no further! I can't stand to be idle - I'd rather lend a hand."

Catharsis is a farmer - a strange occupation to have, in a kingdom that has not a scrap of dirt to call its own, and travels all day by caravan - but that is exactly the ingenious nature of Catharsis' garden. He tends to a hacked together mobile greenhouse-caravan, made of canvas and bamboo. Having fresh and luxurious foods even when traversing deserts has made Catharsis one of the most surreptitiously valuable member of their kingdom; and that is how - surround by a kingdom of tyrants and outlaws - he is loved by all. For who can be mad at the cook? Catharsis is a lily among thorns. Sweet tempered and gentle in nature, dotted on and loved unanimously by those around him - the kingdom's pet. And somehow, he manages to not notice the evils that surround him. Not for virtue, innocence or optimism, but through pure narcissism. Catharsis needs, worries and tries his hardest to love himself. And as to whether he does or not, it doesn't change his obsessive self reflection. But everyone has fault and virtues, and Catharsis has a surprising amount of the later - compassionate, loyal, humble, kind and steadfast - a near perfect farmer.

He remembers how it was when he left home; it was with the sun rising against his back, walking away from the only warmth he ever knew. There was blood on his hands and tremors in his legs. Adrenaline dashed his heart against his ribs like ocean waves. "Catharsis?" His parents would say, "no - we don't have a son by that name." . . . Catharsis came from a family of farmers. Always working. Rising before the dawn and retiring at sunset. Till, plant, harvest - rinse and repeat as you wash the seeds. And when Mother wasn't helping Father, she was always cooking. Always. He'd never seen her sleep. She would be at the stove pulling a fresh loaf out of the oven when he woke up, and canning pickles when he went to bed. Catharsis' parents were hardworking, diligent, humble. And never there. He, and his brother, were left to raise themselves, completely free of supervision. They bickered, and argued - and then it turned to blows.

One day, when Catharsis was only thirteen, the fight grew so fierce that his brother pinned him to the ground and broke his arm - and yet, Catharsis didn't back down - his temper pushed him through the pain, and with his good arm he pulled a knife from the kitchen counter and ran his brother through the stomach.

His brother, eyes wide with disbelief, burbled black blood from his mouth, a hollow gasp followed. Catharsis knelt beside his brother, knowing nothing of what he could do to fix this - he pressed his hand against the wound to stop the bleeding, but the knife had gone clear through to the other side.

Catharsis stared his brother in the eyes, panicked and terrified, as he died in Catharsis' arms. Catharsis never cried - he just felt hollow with guilt and burden. The knife was still in his hand, sticky and sinful. He tossed it across the room and ran out the door.

And that was why Catharsis ran away from home. His temper never surfaced again - he pushes it down, too afraid of it's control over his life, so he forces himself to have a sweet temper, for his own good, for everyone's good.

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