Someone from the first row asked Daniel, “Who has inspired you the most in life?”
“Well, there was a man. Someone I had met a long time ago before any of this,” Daniel smilingly replied. “He was a junkie but he taught me something valuable about life.” There was a deafening silence in the hall. Everyone was listening attentively to this 40-something writer whose debut novel was on top of the New York Times bestseller list for the fifth month straight.
“He was miserable and afraid all the time,” Daniel continued. “Afraid of life, of doing something meaningful rather than snorting white powder every now and then.” He had told this story before as well but not to such a large audience like today. Daniel had met this “stranger” in a hospital when he was brought to the ER due to a drug overdose. He could have died that night but didn’t.
Someone or something saved him. Was it God? No, God doesn’t have time for junkies. At least, that’s what he told himself during the sleepless nights of recovering. No one came to visit him ever. Just a window on his right to look at the stars.
It was then when Daniel first saw him. Lying alone with no one at his bedside. His eyes were swollen. Was he crying? Perhaps, but his face reflected regret and nothing else. He wanted to say sorry to someone but there was no one. “Looking at that man lying there feeling sorry for himself, for wasting his life motivated me to do something good with my own,” said Daniel.
“Is he alive? Do you know where he lives?” a woman asked Daniel, with a mix of curiosity and sadness in her voice.
“He is long gone. But I owe him everything for what I have today,” Daniel replied.
He glanced at his watch. The talk was almost over.
“Does anyone want to ask anything else? We have time for one last question,” Daniel announced.
“What was his name,” a stranger asked.
“Daniel,” he replied.