An Instinctual Judgement

Judgemental [juhj-men-tl] /dʒʌdʒˈmɛnt(ə)l/

adjective

1. The act of being quick to make unreasonably critical judgements to the value or importance of something or someone. Often grounded on a lack of acceptance, kind- heartedness, and the simple failure to step into another’s shoes.

2. The state-of-mind that one’s appearance equates to their sense ofdecency, integrity or morality.

3. The outlook that if one cannot see a reflection of themselves in another, it is reasonable to think that they do not deserve the core value of respect.

Instinct [in-stingkt] /ɪnstɪŋ(k)t/

noun

1. The natural or innate urge, predisposition or propensity.

2. Unlike judgement, the cognitive process of creating an opinion, instinct does not involve reasoning.

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A charmingly dressed young woman walked with the winter wind billowing under her skirt. Her maroon suit and cashmere sweater had a tailored look, eye catching against her light skin. Her long straight hair fell in profusion over her shoulders as she held her blonde haired head high and swanned on with a graceful promenade.

She checked the time on her watch: quarter to eleven. The coldness of the metal felt frosty against her wrist, the silver glinting in the moonlight. The young woman was exhausted after a long day of work; she could feel the fatigue of her synapses luring her into lassitude. Her limbs felt heavier and heavier as she walked down the sidewalk of glistening grey under the moonshine. Her footsteps strode over the diffused path washed clean by raindrops.

As she walked into an alleyway – a shortcut to home – the pavement took a turn to decrepitude. The network of cobwebbed cracks colonised by stubborn yet vivid weeds, crafting patches of unwelcomed green to the grey. The alleyway was the underworld of the city – miserable and unfriendly. She only chose to take this path as she was tired and in haste of returning home. She became more alert, her eyes scanning the passage as she walked; they were so luminous, the precise radiant colour of a polished fragment of silver. Whirls of scintillating stygian black and tinges of green twirled around the edges of her iris.

The vines creeped up the windowsills and the decaying plaster cloaked the stone bricks. Darkness skulked at every corner as she relied heavily on the moonlight to guide her. Ants and insects alike swarmed amongst the dumped litter, reeking of rot. The streetlights in the distance flickered. It was dead quiet, she felt like she could almost hear the orchestra of the urban night.

She noticed a silhouette bulging from near the garbage as she continued down the path. Dressed in many layers, the dim light shone on his face, revealing layers of grime and dirt ridden on his skin. He wore a soiled corduroy beanie and saggy jeans that must have seen better days. He smelt like cigarette smoke and stale beer – although the smell could be coming from the garbage. As she got closer, she heard him murmuring to himself, swear words being tossed around without meaning, each word unpurposed and desultory. Even the insects knew to stay away.

She kept a distance from him as she paraded in her shiny heels. He sat in ineffable layers of fragmenting fleece, shuffling in his ragged, tattered shoes. Her sleek hair tousled in the wind, golden as a sunflower field; while his chestnut hair resembled a jungle, dishevelled and jumbled. His weathered skin wore a mask of muck, while her soft skin shone in the moonshine. He sat with a polystyrene cup near him, containing a few silver coins and perhaps a couple gold ones.

“Please”, he croaked, jingling his cup of loose change.

The young woman clutched her purse tighter as she picked up the pace. She diverted her gaze to avoid his desperate face and to cloak her disgust. This man was clearly an insolent and inerudite person, most likely a high school dropout, an alcoholic or an addict. Her judgement did seem logical, however, because how else would he end up in an alley like this? Surely, he’d spend the money on a bottle ofwhiskey, some drugs, or cigarettes. She thought about giving him some change but decided against it, who knows how he’d waste it? It would be better spent if she donated it to charity the next day.

A loud thud interrupted her thoughts. She looked up at the homeless man, both met each other’s gaze in shock and confusion. She turned around to see the source: a body.

She rushed to the body; it was a woman. Her hickory-coloured hair scattered and stained in crimson blood. Her caramel eyes were wide open, her irises comatose. Her body was slumped over, lying on the cold linoleum pavement. The young woman had to do something. She threw herself onto the body in an attempt to perform CPR, knowing full well that she never properly learnt how to do so.

“Allow me, ma’am”, a husky voice, in the most courteous and humble oftones.

She looked up desperately and moved away from the body. Ma’am? She felt like royalty. She held her nose as the homeless man came closer, placing his fingers onto the neck of the body, searching for a pulse. He released a sigh, as he touched his forehead with his right hand, followed by his lower chest, his left shoulder, and his right shoulder.

“She’s dead”, he said.

The young woman was in shock. She looked at the body on the ground. Lifeless. Lying in pool of blood and reeking a sickly-sweet butcher shop smell. The young woman looked up at the open window where the dead woman fell from; it must have been at least 7 floors up. She had so many questions.

“We have to call the police”, she said, as she rummaged through her purse to find her phone. She dialled 000 on the phone and neared her finger onto the green button -

“Wait”, the homeless man said.

He pointed to what was a duffel bag near the lifeless body, the dead woman’s hand still grasping onto the straps. The homeless man had zipped it open...revealing a stack of cash.

The young woman’s brain stuttered for a moment, in disbelief and bewilderment. She had never seen this much cash before. Her mind was overawed with thoughts, she felt her brain cells suffocating as she stared at the green paper. What should she do? She should probably call the police – no, they would seize the cash, she could do better things with it. She thought of Robin Hood, it wouldn’t be stealing if she used it for good, right? She could use it to feed the homeless, to donate for the poor to access healthcare, clean water, education. She could make a difference to many lives. Afterall, the money is rightfully hers since she found it, isn’t it?

She looked up at the homeless man. No, he found it first.

She couldn’t let him get his hands on the money. She was a good person and had pure intentions; she was going to use it for good. She couldn’t say the same for him, though. He would likely spend the money on alcohol, drugs, cigarettes or anything else to waste. She couldn’t let him get his hands on it. Maybe she should run with the money, so it doesn’t get misused.

“We should call the police”, the homeless man suggested.

The young woman was taken aback with his suggestion. She had judged him to be inerudite and insolent, and yet here he was, offering a completely rational solution when she was the one thinking of running with the money.

She stared at him. His hair was a mop of caramel locks. Soft threads of honey hair escaped his corduroy beanie and caressed his sharp jaw, neck and cheeks. His coarse stubble stretched over his scalp, thicker than a freshly harvested field. He wore a tainted and tattered coat, which hung loosely against his body. His cheekbones stuck out and his face was ghost white. His cerulean-glass eyes sparkled against the sun, those blue colours the envy of any spring sky.

He was much larger than her with an athletic build, he could have easily bolted with the bag. But he didn’t. Instead, he offered a solution to handle the situation fairly like any good person. She had been so hypercritical and narrow minded. She suddenly came to a realisation of how pejorative she was, mentally kicking herself for making such an injudicious and unsympathetic judgement about him, and immediately refuted her initial perception of him. It was senseless of her to judge so quickly on such little information, after all. Besides, he was homeless. Surely, he would understand suffering and struggle, kindness and empathy. She stared into his eyes, a golden twinkle glimmered in his iris and she sensed wisdom and gentleness. She made a promise to herself, that from now, she would never make assumptions based on appearance.

“That seems fair”, she replied. “Let’s count it first.”

She checked her watch again: eleven o clock. It was quite late, but her exhaustion had extinguished. She looked at the sky, as if she was thanking God for her self-actualisation. The sequin-silver stars winked down like the lustrous cinders of a dying fire, illumining the obsidian curtain of sky. The radiant, silvery disc cast its glowing rays of moonlight onto the black ground. She sighed a sigh of relief as she picked up a stack of money, licking her finger and flicking through the notes. She tried to make a mental calculation of how much, but she lost count.

The young woman reached into her purse and pulled out a small, black book. It had a simple, obsidian-hued leather cover, as black as the midnight sky. It was soft to the touch, her fingers dancing through the pages before resting on a blank one. Click. The ink of her pen flowed onto the page as she scribbled down numbers. She counted to herself. A thousand dollars in one stack. One, two, three... nineteen, twenty stacks. That would make twenty thousand dollars.

“Okay so there’s twenty -”, she looked up, absolutely dumbfounded at what she saw.

The homeless man had bolted away, a small, faint silhouette in the distance. The duffel bag had disappeared.

She quickly reached for her purse; she should call the police. Her hand tirelessly searched the cold pavement, her eyes darting in desperation.

But her purse was nowhere to be found.

She sat there, helpless, staring into the distance as the silhouette of the homeless man disappeared into the darkness.