You And Your Dynamite

Imagine a snicker bar. Now imagine a red dynamite with the size of a snicker bar.

You are holding that dynamite. For what? Nobody knows. But you are holding it in your right hand. It’s lighted up, and it’s waiting to explode. You know that it will hurt you, but you hold it with a hopeful eye.

“AAARRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!” you scream with all the air from your lungs. It’s so loud your neighbor’s dog perks his ears. Did he notice your scream or the dynamite explosion? Perhaps both.

You now can heavily smell the burnt skin. Blood starts to ooze from your palm, and it mixes your slightly disfigured right hand; it begins to slowly flow from your palm, to your forearm, to your elbow, and finally dripping to the ground.

“Please don’t fail me again,” you whisper softly to yourself. You take another dynamite, light it up, and grab it with your right hand. The air feels thick; the ticking clock is deafening. Your ear is ringing, and you can barely stand.

The dynamite explodes yet again, and you scream… again. Now the neighbors’ dog is barking in worry; some of the stray cats that happens to wander around stop in front of your house and meow ever so slightly. It seems like they can feel your pain just from your scream. Your vocal cord snapped, and you can barely produce any sound. Holding a lighted up dynamite only leads to pain, why are you still doing it?

You don’t even know.

There’s a pool of blood below you; your vision starts to blur; your body feels cold. You can barely move your right hand, which is now heavily disfigured. Your finger looks like burnt and dried sausage and your palm like a sauce-less rare steak. There is blood; there is flesh; there are bones—you can see everything.

You drop into the floor—curled up beside your own blood. The scent fills up your senses; your eyes feel heavy, and it starts to close by itself.

“Tomorrow… again.” The lips move, but no voice can be heard.