Script seven: agape, all-inclusive love. The love for God and Gods love (which is in everyone) for us. Agape is unconditional, it is a basic right of all people. In men Agape is the love for those who have wronged you. 

“TODAYYYY is gonna be the day… “ Agape started… singing, I guess?

I always feel somewhat responsible to get him home safely. Even though we are the same age, he feels like a little brother to me. I think it’s because of his character, Agape is always happy and bubbly and somehow sees the good in every situation. He is such a great addition to have in pretty much any situation, but it also makes him naïve and childish, so it isn’t always moonlight and roses. Still I love to have him around. He brightens my day hha, I’m Philia by the way. I’m pretty sure Agape will take over the story when he can, right now he’s just a bit occupied…
“… that I’m gonna throw it back to youuu…” He continued.

I tried interrupting him: “all right buddy, I think it’s time for you to get some sleep”.
 “… By now you should’ve somehow realized what you gotta dooo… come on Philia, one more drink?” Agape hassled.
“I’m pretty sure you don’t need another drink, mate” stopping his negotiation , “you coming too, Pragma,” I asked, but before he could answer Agape interrupted again saying: “You, you just want to go home and see that girl tomorrow, I knoooooow, I see you laughing at your phone when she texting, whahaha”

“ Owh, is it still that same girl? You know from the…. From the party where Eros struck out 4 times in a row hha?” Pragma asked curiously.
“yeah man, it’s actually going quite well, I mean, I’m excited to see her again for a change hha, but I do need to get to bed, are you coming or not?” I proposed.
“Nah I’m gonna have another cigarette, at least if I’m welcome,” he laughed towards the group of smokers.
“only if you give me a smoke as well” someone in the group answered jokingly.
“sure haha, I’ll pay the fee,” Pragma answered.
“allright, see you tomorrow,” I said, while getting an arm around Agape.
“see you tomorrow,” Pragma answered.

“I DON’T BELIEVE THAT ANYODY FEEELS THE WAYYY I DOOO,” Agape screamed at the top of his lungs, while I was pulling him away from the crowds. Not surprisingly, he caught the attention of some onlookers. Often with a confused look on their faces. After realizing it was just another drunk idiot on the streets, they would continue with their conversations, puke sessions or public indecencies. It took around 20 minutes to get Agape to our apartment - which is a 10 minute walk normally by the way, just so you have a reference. After putting him to bed, I took a shower and went to sleep. What I didn’t know at the time was that Agape decided to carry on the party solo. But I think he’s gonna take the story from here.

Heeeeyooo beautiful people, my name is Agape. I’m gonna be very very very very honest with you. I’m a little bit drunk, so I might get the story slightly twisted, but I will do my best. For you. I promise. I will try to tell you my story as truthfully and nuanced and fair and honest and without boring you and fair and.... What was I talking about again?

Ow right: Agape, the story. Get ready, ya’ll. I went out with the boys. And in the pre-drink I might have had some shots and wine after a joint or three. So yeah, I was already, let’s say, intoxicated when we came to the club. I don’t think anything really happened there, I mean… I had some more drinks and a cigarette or two. But nothing really noteworthy. And even if it did, I can’t remember.

I’d say the real Agape storyline begins… After Philia put me to bed, he is such a cutie by the way. Always looking out for us and stuff. I’d catch a bullet for that guy. He is just so god damn friendly. Like this one time when we were partying Mania fell with his bike. Of course -assholes that we are- we burst out laughing. It wasn’t until Philia saw that he was really in pain and started tending his wounds, while screaming at us to shut up that we finally realized he might have broken his leg. We transformed from inconsiderate laughing assholes to headless chickens. Luckily Philia set us straight and demanded we’d call an ambulance, when they got there, shit was hectic man, just imagine the… I’m rambling again. 

Sorry my friends. Back to the story. So Philia put me to bed and at first I actually tried to get some sleep. However, as some of you might know, when you are reaaallly drunk, the room and bed start to dislike each other, at least I think they do, since they seem to be trying to get away from one another by spinning as fast in the opposite direction as they can. I was focusing on not trying to puke, when this little voice in my head, you know that voice that makes you think it’s a good idea to go hug that tough looking biker (true story). Yeah, this time he… she? it? said: “nope, we gonna have some fun, buddy”. So I got up. Nice, the room and bed found their synchronization. After I stood up I was drawn to my window. Aaah, some fresh air, maybe it’s not a bad idea to take a little stroll, I reasoned with the voice.

After I rolled another joint, I grabbed my coat and went right back out there. To the big bad outside. I didn’t really have a plan, so I just started walking. Guided by that little whisper, I ended up in the slums of our town. The poor neighbourhood, I don’t know why I so blindly followed that voice, why my legs didn’t decide to change direction and go back towards a party, a happier place, because well… I really hate these kinds of places. I’m not sure if you heard, but I’m quite the optimist in life. I’ll always try to see the positive in a bad situation, a real “glass half full” kinda guy. But here, between the hopeless faces of futureless junkies, the smell of despair and piss, the gang violence and countless cases of corruption… The broken feeling of a failed district, it’s pretty difficult to stay optimistic. I felt gloomier by the second and just before deciding to head back home, I let the voice talk me into one more idea. 

I’ve still got some weed… That’ll lift my spirit. It can’t get much worse anyways, I thought to myself. After walking for 2 more minutes, I spotted a little bench in front of an old church. Perfect! I sat down, Lit my jiffie and could -against my own expectation- relax quite well. The first hit was exactly the very sensation I needed, the smoke filling my mouth with delusion and happiness or was it happy delusions? Whatever it was, it calmed me down. I stopped worrying about where I was and started to appreciate the scenery a bit. There was this kind of beauty or attraction about the old buildings, the broken church and the five trees along the crooked street. I know I’m contradicting myself a bit, but it’s like watching a gory film? You don’t want to see anyone’s brain eaten by some monster, but when it happens, you can’t really look away either. You know?

I continued my weedstick. I felt the smoke kissing my palate, I felt it going down towards my lungs, continuing to disperse in my blood, where it searched its way to my heart. Last, but not least it found its place in my brain. Instead of seeing the beauty in the darkness, the weed made me forget the eerie atmosphere and the more I smoked, the less I saw. It changed the whole sad and morbid vibe to something somewhat funny? So I started laughing because I remembered that I just randomly decided to run away from our apartment to sit on a bench in some shitty neighborhood and for some reason I also repeated: “How you doing” in different intonations to myself. I think it’s fair to say I was tripping balls. For a moment I wanted to thank that little voice; for showing me that even in a situation like this, you can have faith in drugs. I stopped paying attention to the scenery, let my mind do its thing and just enjoyed my thought processes.

Now if I can give you some advice, if you are ever in a typical bad neighborhood around 6 in the morning, maybe don’t stop paying attention… A couple of minutes after the marihuana was completely integrated in my bloodstream a sketchy looking group turned in the street. From what I remember they looked like the school example of ‘bad teens’. Black hoodies, torn jeans, fancy shoes, one dude on a scooter making as much noise as possible, a couple of cigarettes in their mouths, throwing the containers from their cheap bears towards a passing car… I think you get the idea, don’t you? 

Before I fully realized, they surrounded the bench I was sitting on and one of the smaller guys started talking: “What a beautiful sunrise, don’t you think?”
“Mhm” I answered, he was right actually, the sunrise was pretty picturesque, with the warm red sun-light reflecting the Mosaic-windows of the church in a tapestry of vivid colors. If I wasn’t 99 percent sure I was in trouble, I might’ve enjoyed it.
“You know what would make this morning way better?” He asked, challengingly. I knew I shouldn’t answer, but I also knew that it didn’t really matter, they had already fixated the high idiot on the bench. As if he could read my mind in the moment, he continued: “a good breakfast at the macdo…” a wave of agreement and sly laughter followed his proposition. “… but oh what bad luck, I don’t have any money on me, Hey Jippy -which I can only assume was a nickname for Jim or Jef or something-, you got any paper?”.

“No Nekker, -which again couldn’t be his real name- I don’t got shit on me” the largest (in height and broadness) answered.
“Oh, that sucks, and I am really craving bacon and eggs” Nekker proclaimed, looking me straight in the eyes. “oh stranger, you wouldn’t be able to spare some money for a couple of hungry boys?” 

The confrontation had sobered me up a little and I was thinking of the best way to handle this situation. Normally I’d just give them the money, but I didn’t take my wallet with me, when I decided to listen to that fucking shitty ass voice. I could make a run for it, but the scooter dude would easily catch me. I’m not even sure if I could outrun any of those guys, I’m not particularly fast or in shape or anything. I could calmly try to explain to them that I did not have any money either, but I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. I felt my time running out as the group was eager to get an answer.

“ don’t hurt me,” I whispered to Nekker, hoping he’d take pity on the sad stoner.
“ give me your fucking wallet, bitch,” he said in a firm tone, clearly done playing.
“ I don’t have it on me, man, please just let me go home,” I tried to appeal to some sort of sympathy again.

He hesitated for a split second. A split second where I had the hope he’d just let me go without a traumatic experience. But after the false hope of Nekker’s hesitation had faded, I saw a big smile appear on his face: “get him,” he said, in harmony with my first thoughts when I entered this neighbourhood. I tried to get up and run, but before I even took a step, one of the guys who hadn’t said anything yet punched me in the stomach so hard the vomit (that didn’t leave my body before) sprayed out like it wanted nothing more than to splatter on the cold unforgiving ground. “what a gross fucking junkie,” I heard someone screeching over the laughter of the group. I tried to regain my posture, when another hand was already launched at my face, but by some miracle I was able to dodge it, so I wouldn’t be knocked out, not that it did much, because three seconds later a kick to the back of my knees forced me to the ground. I saved myself from falling completely by placing my hands in the freshly pool of puke. Another punch to the back of my head made me black-out on the spot. I’m sure they enjoyed hitting me some more before they stole my phone and jacket, which I found out the next morning.

I woke up with a crazy amount of pain in my ribs, head, foot and face. But… where did I wake up? I was in the hospital? Someone had given me a cold patch and I saw some pain killers laying on the stand next the bed. Oh yeah, I was in a bed? When I sat up a little straighter I could see the sober room I was in. There was one lonely closet next to the window and a painting of “our lord and saviour” Jesus Christ directly opposite the bed. Underneath the painting was a bookshelf with a couple of lit candles, it almost looked like a little altar… An altar… I realized I must’ve been taken in the church. OOh fuck me… My head hurts. What a story… Getting beat up by some fucking 15-year old’s with nicknames like: Nekker and Jippy or something. I will never listen to that tempting devilish voice again. 

I heard the footsteps of what I could only assume was my rescuer in the hall. I was wondering what he’d look like. With my skills of deductions I figured it would be a pastor, an old man with a beard and good posture. Someone who’d seen a lot of shit and maybe let his faith change him for the better? He’d definitely know the bible from cover to cover and would have a good almost heroic undertone in his doing. The door opened and I like to think I was about 90 percent right. He definitely looked like an old wise man. And the scar across his right cheek indicated he did come from a troubled past. Or you know he fell with his bike or something. He didn’t have a beard though. 

“how are you feeling,” the pastor said with a heroic undertone, while putting a bowl of soup, accompanied with a glass of water and a piece of bread on the stand next to me. “I’ve got some soup, if you’re hungry and some water if you’re thirsty… Or if you need to take a painkiller.”
“Thanks,” I said while taking an ibuprofen and swallowing it with a bit of water. “I’m sorry I didn’t call an ambulance, but I didn’t know if you have health insurance or not and they wouldn’t care to find out,“ the pastor said with an embarrassed face. “ It’s okay, those punks only broke some of my bones, I think” I said, smiling (joking is my defence mechanism, by the way). The pastor grinned and responded he’s glad I still had a sense of humor. A couple of seconds later his grin disappeared and seriousness took over his entire face.
“do you remember exactly what happened?” 

I explained what had occurred and how I got to be beaten up before this man’s church. The moment I said the two nicknames: Nekker and Jippy, I saw the pastor’s face filling with sorrow and discontent. It was clear as day, Pastor holyman knew these people.

“you know them don’t you?” I confronted the hero. After a long pause. A pause of redemption, a pause of uncertainty, a pause of contemplating. For some reason I imagined a little angel and devil on the pastor’s shoulders. Telling him the good and the bad course of action… I might have a concussion. “I do know them,” the pastor finally responded with a sigh.

“tell me their real names, tell me so I can report those assholes,” I demanded.
“I’ll tell you, but first I would like to tell you a story,” the pastor pleaded.
I was a little surprised by this weird proposition, but then again, religious people are weird. Even though I didn’t really feel like getting a religious lesson, I couldn’t help but to be a little curious. I agreed and the pastor started talking.
“When I was a younger man, I lived a different life. It’s not something I am proud of,” he paused “the drugs, the fights, the… women. I’m pretty sure that if I saw you laying there 50 years ago I wouldn’t bat an eye, even worse, I would probably go through your pockets…” I heard sadness filling the man’s words. I think I even saw a tear forming in his eye.
“… 45 years ago, when I was about your age, my friends and I were out late, partying. It was a night like any other and we got in a fight with some other punks. That wasn’t something new. But this time things kept escalating. From fist fighting to using chairs and bottles. My best friend Jay was hit on the back of his head with an empty beer bottle. A couple of minutes later the police showed up and after putting all troublemakers on the ground, the fighting stopped. While getting arrested I saw him lying there. Motionless, a red puddle surrounded his head and kept getting larger and larger. I started screaming for help, broke free of my arresting officer and ran towards him. I remember being tackled to the ground just a couple of feet from his lifeless body. Two more officers came and dragged me towards a police car, while my friend just lay there. Possibly pushing out his final breath. The worst night I ever had was in that cell, not knowing whether my friend would live. Or if he even was alive.” I was completely absorbed by his story. But the pause he clearly needed to regrasp what he was telling me, made me think. Why was he telling me this? There must have been a point to it. I mean, you don’t just tell someone this traumatizing shit unless you want to convince them of something. “Jay died in the hospital two hours after being hit in the head,” the pastor interrupted my train of thought. “When I got to Jay’s house, with the intention of telling his family what happened, it took me two hours to get out of my car and another 30 minutes to knock on their door. His mother opened the door with tears in her eyes…. The only word I managed to utter was: I’m sorry”… 

Another pause in the monks story… Around this moment I didn’t even care anymore what the point of his story was, I was just filled with compassion for this man. The way he told the story showed the struggles he still had with his past, he started talking again.

“She grabbed me and held me tight in one of the most emotional hugs of my life. I kept on mumbling the word “sorry" while I embraced this mother without a son…. Jay’s father was a cop, so his family knew what had happened even before I did apparently. At the time of the trial all brawlers except one showed up, the one who killed Jay. At first I thought he escaped the arm of the law, that he had ran off somewhere safe. Hell, even I knew it wasn’t that difficult to get away in this shitty system. Two weeks later, however, his body was found in the river. Jay’s murderer was killed. And I have to admit that I was glad at first. He got what he deserved. That asshole should rot in hell for taking my best friend. And I continued thinking that for some time after. Yet after I read about his death I didn’t sleep anymore. I didn’t want to party or fight, I didn’t want to see my other friends. All I wanted was to get Jay back, but I couldn’t. I found this place instead. Where I try to help those who need help. Nekker and Jippy or Noa Slim and Jason Dandy are some of the people I want to help, just as I helped you. They are not bad kids. And reporting them will only…” I was engulfed by rage, how dare he, how dare this man to guilt me into helping the idiots who beat me up. He was just trying to talk me into not reporting those little shits. But I was too pissed and too hurt to let him into my head.

“You helped me and now you are asking for repayment. I should help you by not reporting those kids, huhn,” I abruptly stopped his plea. The pastor looked genuinely offended by what I said.
“No, I helped you because you needed help. No other reason. I did what our lord and savior would have done. And I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive Noa and Jason, but that must be your choice. To show love and compassion for those who have wronged you is the purest of loves, but it is a difficult one to achieve.” The pastor ended looking all high and mighty. But I have to admit that at the very least he made me think about it. I turned my head to receive a pleasant kiss from the sun on my face. The sunshine’s warmth made me recharge a little and OOOOOH fuck.
“pastor, what time is it?” I asked in distress.
“Well, I’m actually a monk, but that’s not really important, erm it’s 6, oh you must be starving, please eat something,” The hero was back, I thought to myself.
“no, my friends must be worried sick… I have to go.”
“please eat something first, and can’t you call them?”
“No, I can’t call them, because your friends stole my phone”
“oh right, okay how about this, you drink your soup and I’ll drive you home afterwards?”
A drive home would be very pleasant, since I didn’t had the faintest idea of where exactly I was
“okay… deal”.

The car drive was pretty silent and longer than I’d think. But I did appreciate the monk’s help. I really did. Just before I got out of the car, the monk said: “hey, just think about it.” I nodded and went to my apartment, ready to get back in bed.

A couple of days later I reported the crime to the police. One of the policemen asked if I remembered any detail about my attackers: a tattoo, a weird hairstyle or a scar. I sank in a deep thought process, where I was contemplating whether or not I should tell this man their names: Noa Slim and Jason Dandy, Noa Slim and Jason Dandy, Noa Slim and Jason Dandy, NOA SLIM AND JASON DANDY.
“hello, Agape? Are you okay, do you need a glass of water?”
I looked the officer in the eye and I saw a sincere worry about me, now that I think about it, it’s the same look the monk gave me when he pleaded for my assaulters. Somehow when I tried to picture them, you know the guys who beat me up, I saw the face of the monk and it led me down a slippery slope, I started to think about the looks of their families, their mothers and fathers…  I shook my head quietly.
“okay, then we are done here, thank you for your time and if you remember anything else be sure to contact us.” 

I don’t know why I didn’t say their names, I still think I could call the police any second now and give them up, but somehow I do feel good now, as if this story is finished, and I don’t ever have to think about Noa Slim and Jason Dandy ever again. And to be completely honest with you guys, however fucked up it is, I kind of love this story.

Next Chapter: script eight: Philia