The Spear

Fictional short story.

There is a spear in my chest. It has long protruded from my blood-caked torso, sinew healing itself around the splintered wood. The splints mixed with shards of broken spine and ribs tearing through my flesh and organs. It has me skewered to this chair. My skin has nearly healed around the spear, welcoming it, making it a part of me, an extension of my flesh. I have long ago stopped bleeding for the spear. It is a part of me now, this rotting, termite-infested shard that pins me here. I have long stopped counting the days it has held me, restricting my breathing and corrupting my blood.

 

I used to want to rip out the spear, I used to want to stand, feel movement in my body, but now I accept it. I welcome it. It brings me happiness, this spear in my chest, twisted through my muscles and flesh. I do nothing now, I used to go out, no longer. I sit and think on the spear, I blame the spear, I find comfort in the spear, it is a part of me now. I have forgotten why this spear resides in me, why it was pushed through my skin and shattered my bones and tore my muscle apart. As with everything else the cause doesn’t matter, what matters is the spear, the spear, the spear matters, it’s all that matters. Why did they leave me alone? I cannot blame the spear. It is them, they could have helped but they left. I remember their last words: “You won’t remove your spear because it gives you a reason to pity yourself, I have tried to help you but deep down you want the spear, you love the spear.” And they’re right, I love the spear.

I can’t move, I can’t leave, I can’t go anywhere because of this spear, but that’s ok, it’s all I need. I can’t let anyone know I love the spear or I won’t get their sympathy. Nothing matters but me, they call me selfish, they call me narcissistic, but can’t they see my pain? Can’t they see how bad I have it? I refuse to pull the spear out, to even try, but that doesn’t mean I want it, I’m the victim here. It’s not my fault I’m in this place, it’s everyone else! It’s society! It’s this fucked up world! It’s not my fault! I would rip this spear out but it’s a part of me now, it comforts me, I’m scared of feeling the ripping flesh and sinew, I’m scared of feeling the blood run out, I’m scared of feeling, I don’t want to feel, I love the numb where nothing is real, I don’t want to feel like I used to, I don’t want to hurt.

This is not a dream I will wake up from, this is the dark place of my eternity. This cave I crawl through with no hope of seeing light, but I must create the light myself. I must reach into myself and rip out the plug of unhappiness so that I may let light into my existence. I grasp onto the protruding shard of loathing and loneliness and pull. From inside the cave a great shift is felt, the earth shakes as it stretches and snaps, black liquid spills into the cave and drowns me. I reach further down the spear and grasp the base, black blood covers my hands as I wrench the spear from my body, snapping sinew and flesh as it is pulled free. I pull it out, like a plug in a filthy drain finally released, caked in blood. It pours out of my wound, black and congealed onto the floor, seeping into the carpet. I drop the spear at my side, and stare into it, this controlling force that numbed me, I feel pain rack my core, it feels good. I am not a slave to this pain like I was to the unfeeling, I will no longer find happiness in slavery, I will find happiness in feeling life, the pain and happiness of life.

I pick up the spear and think of all it has cost me, years of living and the people I loved. It cost me myself, it changed me. I snap it over my knee. It will never control me and cloud my vision again. I feel the hole in my chest, all that is left. I would have said I will never be the same again, but I will become as close as possible to who I was before, I will not let this change me like it tried so hard to do. I feel fear for the first time, fear I will never heal, it feels good. As long as I am unhealed I will remember, as long as I remember I cannot be hurt again. I walk to the doors at the end of the room and throw them open, tearing apart the darkness with claws of light, I feel air on my face. I can think clearly now. I am living again, for the first time.

Reviews

[pragya gaur]

Feeling very nice to read this story Bharris Ji...and feeling glad to say we are of same age too...I am not good at story writing....but I love reading....this touched my heart...welcome to writers cafe :-)