Merciful Tool

What I left in California, or rather what was taken from me, has me spinning. Family, money, home, dignity.  I have nothing but soiled clothes and my merciful tool. I lost command of my life years before I hit rock bottom, but I'm at the whim of the fates that steered me to this moment no more. I'm taking control. I'm saying how this ends.

In a remote field of Missouri I feel the weight of my life, the weight of the metal in my hand. The remainder of my time is determined by this simple tool. I try to cajole my hand to do what's needed, but there's a clear break in communication between the brain and the body. My brain knows the motion, but can't dictate the message to my hand. I pray it's temporary. The margin between life and death is slim.

I've been told so many things throughout life that I wonder what's real and what's just propaganda. My father's stories of tribulation and triumph now imbue my justified passion to do what I feel necessary. He was strong, but I'm not built to withstand the hardships the way he was.

The magnitude of the moment is taking its toll. I feel my esophagus close tight. The chortle that forced its way out my lips has almost a psychotic undertone. The bravado I once held so proudly in my mannerisms fled at the first sight of humbleness. A cacophony of old familiar voices and inaudible screams fills my head. Slowly it fades to a soft buzz allowing me to release the fetters on my doubts. I pick up my hand to my head with purpose.

BAM!

I drop hammer on nail to segue into the next chapter—a new home for new dreams.