peccatore | Marco's Heart

Marco's Heart

You find yourself in a bright white, circular room. It's nearly empty; too bare, almost clinically so. But the bareness of it means that what is visible here stands out:

A podium in the center, where a familiar figure sits, head buried in his hands. Three paths running from the podium to three different spots near the edges of the room - not corners; circles don't have corners - where three doors leading seemingly nowhere stand with no regard for their complete lack of structural support.

It doesn't take you long to figure out where you are, does it? You only have to decide where to start.

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"The ones at each of the doors. You can't see them from here."

Oh. No.

Is this some . . . manifestation of your inner world or something?

"... Ah. I'm sorry, I thought you knew. Yes, it's, it's something like that."

What do you want to get out of this?

Marco opens his mouth, but doesn't find the words right away. After a few seconds:

"Do I look like I have any idea?"

[huffs a little laugh]

Of course not. But I thought I'd at least ask.

"I, I mean, it's not... I didn't trap people here on purpose." A beat. "I think."

Maybe it's a cry for help.

"I can't say I'm comfortable with that concept."

Are you uncomfortable asking for help?

You don't need to answer that.

"Well-- Well, I mean, a 'cry for help', that's..."

Marco spends a good three seconds looking for the right words, hands held out in front of him.

"I-It sounds desperate."

[gently]

Yeah.

That's okay.

"... It's 'okay'?"

It's okay to feel desperate for something sometimes.

For help. For change. For love, for—whatever you need. I don't think feeling desperation is shameful.