Screw it.

A Story by Espanaglo

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It’s a warfare.
It’s a warfare in my 15-year-old mind. Emotion tearing apart logic. Hatred swording through love. Death is as common as life. Screams of anguish and pain fill the air. It’s a warfare.

I’m unconscious.
The last thing I remember is looking for a screwdriver. I’m groggy, but I can still hear Ma crying. I can feel bright lights through my closed eyelids. They are piercing me. I’m unconscious.

I’m back up.

I notice huge wraps of medical gauze on my left hand. I’m starting to remember several things now. I don’t want to.

I’m at my home.
I don’t really like it here. Some of my relatives have come to see me. For the first time in so many years, I am starting to realize how fake they are. How fake they have been all along.

I’m in my room.
Alone. I remember everything now. It’s been 2 weeks, and I remember everything. I remember that I found what I was looking for. The screwdriver. I had a sharpener in my hands. I was trying to unscrew the blade. When it wouldn’t come apart, I was frustrated. I remember the reason too.

You. It was you, pushing me to this stage. Her name echoes hard inside my head. I hold my hand as I feel it might explode. And then the visons come. You, all over her.
AAH! It’s horrible.

I see a sharpener right in front of me. Conveniently placed. I take it in my hands, and try to unscrew the baled with my long fingernails. I can’t do it. I need a screwdriver.