He lit his cigarette, slowly turning it clockwise like one would a cigar. Then he slumped back into his chair while clearing his thoat.

“The thing is,” he said, exhaling the smoke,”I really *am* misunderstood. It’s not just a cliché.” I nodded. “They think of me and images of ‘evil’ come to mind.” Puff. “Extraordinary, really.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“I dunno. Maybe it’s my looks.”

His looks were nothing unusual. He was neither ugly nor particularly attractive. In fact, you could say he was nondescript and rather *average*.

“Sounds like you’re using that as an excuse. Your looks are not an issue.”

He smiled, almost as if he’d been caught. “Yeah, sure. I guess.”

“Maybe instead, they don’t like what you’ve done. You know, your record?”

“Aw,” came the disappointed reply. “No fair. I haven’t done anything!”

“Precisely. Your apparent ‘evil’ comes from your utter lack of trying. You never engage anyone in anything of any import, you cannot be stirred to positive action unless your immediate wants are threatened, and you can be too easily scared into doing nothing.” I drew a sharp breath. “You’re ‘evil’ because you’re self-paralyzed. A do-nothing.”

“Come onnnn…,” he said. He was whining now. Not endearing, and one of his more ‘evil’ aspects. “Why do you want to pick on me?”

“That’s another thing. You never blame yourself for your screwups and consequently come off as a perpetual victim. But you’re not a victim, nor have you ever really been.”

“But they keep saying–”

“I don’t care what they say!” I was surprised to find myself raising my voice, as was he. We sat silent, sort of staring at each other for a few seconds before he dropped his head and crushed out his cigarette, which by now has burned into a little grey mushroom.

“But does all this make me evil?” he innocently asked.

I sighed. “No. Evil doesn’t exist. Evil is a human construct which less responsible human beings rely on as the reason their lives aren’t what they wanted. What most people refer to evil is a combination of human frailties.” I motioned for him to give me a cigarette. He complied. “Frailties like greed, selfishness, fear, self-centeredness, and, often, mental illness. You combine these frailties, each taken to a dramatic degree, and you’ve got your historical evil. Hitler, Stalin, Manson, what have you…”

“Dracula?”

I cleared my throat.

“IF Dracula existed, sure.”

“Dracula *did* exist,” he said smugly. “Vlad the Imp–”

“Vlad Ţepeş, yes, I know. Son of the devil, blah blah. Yes, Vlad Ţepeş was a Wallachian prince who was *mentally ill*.”

He seemed impressed by my trivia mastery. But his self-absorption returned him to his favorite topic rather quickly: “Would you consider *me* ‘mentally ill?’”

I paused. Maybe I did.

“Well, ‘mentally ill’ might be a tad harsh to describe *you*, but I’d say you certainly have issues.”

He sighed, almost in defeat. “Maybe I am nuts…”

“Oh for the love of all that is supposedly holy,” I burst out. “Are we doing *this* now? The pity thing?”

“What pity thing?”

“The thing you always do when you’re criticized. ‘Oh, poor me. Oh, me oh my. Whatever hsall I do with my wretched self?’” I mocked. “*That* pity thing.” I lit my cigarette.

He reached in his pocket for another cigarette and held it in his lips for a few seconds, not wanting to even look at me. I took it as a sign that our conversation was over, but he seemed to have a look about him that he didn’t want it to end, just that he had been unable to come up with a rebuttal to my criticism. Which is typically him. He can’t stand criticism, but he’s not too bright and a bit slow on the uptake.

“We done?” I asked.

He sighed. “I don’t know…” Another pause. “Maybe.”

“Well, until I hear from you further, you know where I stand. You’re not the worst reature on this earth, but you have a lot to learn about how life really works. You’re livign in your dreamworld, content to pursue mad fantasies that will never happen. You will never be rich, you will never be famous, and you will never be a good-looking rock star/Hall of Fame athlete.” I drew a puff from the cigarette in my mouth. Exhale. “You’re better than your worst assessment of yourself, but you’re not as capable as you think in your best dreams. You need a hard, cold dose of reality, kid.”

I knew he didn’t want to hear this. He has been avoiding hearing this sort of thing all of his life. But at least I think it started to get to him.

Usually criticism causes the criticized to react one of two ways: either they resist it fully or they take it into consideration and decide to work on improving themselves. I couldn’t trust that he would follow the latter strategy, since he never had before. He normally would take in teh criticism, get a little self-doubt, but he’d eventualy just let the anger cool. I could not tell you where he was headed this time.