Put the Hammer Through the Wall (Short Story)

One swing was all it took.

It shattered the bricks and mortar there and cast fragments of grey and red in every direction. They careened off the other walls and pattered against the floor with the light scratching sounds of rodents skittering away. Dust filled the air and choked those who did not expect it to spill so heavily. He did.

Another swing brought round in a different spot and once more pieces were gone. A moments wrenching and then the hammerhead was free, its black metal head dull in the swinging basement light. Where it had struck there was a gaping crater, a wound to the wall that bled only in fragments and dust.

Two hands tightened on the wooden shaft and again around went the hammerhead, accompanied by the familiar, almost blood-curdling scream of a man driven. Every time the scream came without hesitation, without trial, without tribulation. Every time it echoed just as long as the last and never did it show a moment to try and fade from existence. It would go on forever if it could.

Again and again and again and again. There was no end to the swinging that brought such a great swing down upon the wall and tried to bend it to its will. Every single swing shattered more and more, dust spewed into the air and filled the room and was pulled up through the open doors that lead out of the basement and into the light.

The wooden stairs so long neglected creaked and groaned though no physical weight ever loaded them down. Instead, they creaked as ghosts freed from their trapped slumber beyond the bricks marched away into the freedom of the open air—where dust never spiralled like snow and the world was quiet from the screams of man. Or this was at least how his mind did try to quiet the burning terror deep inside him.

Again and again and again and again. Each swing burrowing deeper into the wall, casting more mortar and brick fragments to the cement floor. They began to pile up, mixing with the little blood and pieces of clothing that fell to the floor as stray fragments lashed out at the wielder. They would not stop him though their bitter teeth did try to take hold like weasels upon their prey.

He shook off everything, his arms cut and bruised across his forearms, his chest heaving as dust choked him and his lungs filled with the rancid concoction of his own labor’s destruction. He would stop and spit slime in thick jets onto the floor and would watch it swirl with the blood and dust for several moments. The wastes of life spilled out onto the floor, mixed with the dust of time that makes all man. A nothing. A pitiful nothing that any man could make and any man could see.

Again and again and again and again. He swung so hard that his fingers burned and his muscles screamed out to heaven; they received no salvation. Not a moment’s respite was granted them. His eyes burned in the dim light as the dust bit into his unprotected eyes: no goggles, no shield, no hazard masks, no thick gloves to protect his hands. He was but raw man.

He did not stop to think or rest or eat or sleep, all these things afforded time for his bitter enemy to assail him and bring about his past. Memory hounded his every step and he could see it dancing in the shadows as the light of the basement swung back and forth wildly. Fragments bounced against the light but it remained strong, swinging back and forth and keeping Memory ever vigilant to not reveal itself before the man was weak.

Again and again and again and again. The hammer did not stop but quickened in its everlasting pace. Memory would not get this man nor any man like him, for he knew that he would never be weak. He would not remember and already he was forgetting. His eyes burned in their sockets and tears poured like rain, but he knew they were not tears of sorrow and thus he did not count himself defeated. These were tears of anguish and of pain, of pain that he caused himself. And this was the first time that he had ever felt such a pain….though he was no stranger to its name and its touch. And for this moment when he felt his own self-torture burn and tear at him, both soul and mind, he rejoiced as if he was mad.

The laugh rose up and out the doors that lead into the light and chased the ghosts away, though they waited to listen from a distance just too far away to be afraid of what the man was. Here they could be safe from this man who vexed their minds and who some could not believe was real. Man does not exist like this. No no.

Again and again and again and again. The hammer scarred itself as it scarred its unyielding, undying enemy. Sparks leapt off from the head of the weapon as it caught edges and resilient chunks of granite, but always it conquered the enemy on the second blow. Its face stared defiantly at the wall and did not turn itself away, did not wear nor tear nor break nor bend.

The wall was crumbling in great pieces, as if it was a glacier finally warmed by the rays of the long lost sun. A brick, half alive, fell to the ground with a crash and shattered itself to pieces and formed a pattern on the ground that was quickly scattered by the next swing’s blow. Fallen comrades cannoned down amongst their dead brethren who rolled and skittered about the room, hiding in the corners where Memory touched them and observed their shattered nature.

And the man did scream up and down with every swing. No moment of weakness, no exhaustion, no pain that he did not bear with more joy than sorrow, with more welcome than any rich guest or gift-bringer could be offered.

Again and again and again and again. Somewhere a TV screamed about the news but it did not matter nor did it affect the man. So its sway was none and thus its droning died away. The weather roared, waned, and altered its state a million fold as the man did swing, but never once did he feel the change and so it died away. There was nothing but the hammer, the wall, and the light that danced back and forth and kept Memory at bay.