Put the Hammer Through the Wall (Cont)

Wood splinters dug now into his fingers as hours turned to days and the shaft began to twist and wrench and wear under the iron grip of the man. With every pain and every swing he tightened more, letting the splinters burrow deeper and cut the flesh and skin away from his hand. A fingernail tore itself free and blood poured to the floor, mixed with flesh and vomit, spit and urine.

Grotesque. That was what this was. Grotesque and disturbing. And right. It was right and he knew it was. It felt right in every bone of his body, it felt right in his heart and in his very soul, and he could feel the latter crying out of every pour and radiating now stronger than ever with his cries.

Granite and dust and brick piled to his knees now as he cast it aside and filled the room with more at every swing. The hole tore itself apart and grew like the maws of Hell or Death or worse or maybe, better. It did not matter to the screaming man. All was the same to him in the end.

Again and again and again and again. He swung until the head crashed against the wall deep inside and caught a sharp piece of brick and shattered it. Then in the drawing out did the hammer’s head catch the edge and the weakened shaft did splinter and loose the head, which tumbled into the wall and into the dark where Memory played with it in joy.

But he did not give in, but dove into the shadow and clawed the head up and with his hand pounded it against the brick. Dust spilled away in little flecks as his hand began to scream in agony and his muscles began to burn with fire as the light flickered for a moment, then died away. The light from the stairs called out to him, but he did not look back. Would that it mattered, he could not see to find his way.

Again and again and again and again. In the dark, his eyes now a paled white which did not burn and did not see collected dust as his worn hands continued to strike. And when one throbbed so hard that it almost fell from the wrist, he switched hands and gave the other a rest. Never did both ache so that he could not give the other enough time for its respite. Too much adrenaline did fill his very core.

And still he screamed in the dark as his body grew thinner and weaker and his stomach turned itself inside out and his body stank. Sweat rolled down his entire body and soaked his clothes so they stuck to his skin and as he crawled deeper into the wall, swinging ever harder, his clothes tore away, leaving a trail to all those who dared to journey into the hole.

Memory kept well away even now, for it could see the man was not to be trifled with, and so it lurked and waited in the shadow, reaching out and plucking at his hair and at his arms but never staying them for very long…no not at all in truth.

Again and again and again and again. He swung as his eyes began to seethe and his face festered from wounds long neglected. Yet still he swung. Where was the dirt? How long had he shattered brick and heard the ever pounding thunder that was brick to metal? Sparks cast up and around yet they were fireworks he no longer could see, celebrating something too long continued to ever need celebration.

Outside, the TV stopped and the lights faded and the weather raged and calmed and always changed, but all were long dead to this place. Even the door with its light shining down and the stairs that creaked under the weight of the million freed souls that could not be seen and hid from his screams long passed. Deeper he burrowed in with every swing and every scream.

And then it shattered completely. His right forearm shattered as it struck the brick wall, the metal head slipping away. Blood and bone spit everywhere as his arm snapped like a twig and his skin ripped away and blood poured across his body and across the shadows of the world. The head crashed into the dark, rolling away as his arm twisted and writhed as the bones split away and his fingers shattered into dust within his skin.

And now, oh now, his screams did stop.

And now, oh now, he began to cry.

And Memory lunged forward but was caught back in one final scream that sent it running away and up the stairs that creaked and groaned. Here he lay sobbing quietly, hoarsely, all the time that he had so long prolonged this suffering now gone, and all came upon him at once and tried to bury him.

He placed his sweating, bloody, cut and bruised head against the hot brick wall, which now seethed and hummed out to him to continue. But he could not. All overwhelmed him, his muscles ate themselves whole and cold rushed across his body as his breath wheezed free and his body went limp.

His skin was numb and lifeless and blood soaked; his hands could not feel to discern how deep he was or even what parts of his body touched the wall. His tongue was coated in dust and powdered brick and he could not taste but sulfur and bile. His eyes rotted in his very head and he could tell that his brain was burning in the disgusting pain. His smell was plugged by dust and brick fragments that had long ago been inhaled in his primal yells.

He set his ear to the wall, for he could now hear in the deep and empty silence. And he heard the humming from just beyond the wall. One more brick was all there was. He knew it. One more brick and he had stopped and could do no more. But had he swung again and again and again and again….there would still be but one more brick. And so he dragged himself so his ear was against the wall and he could lay comfortably, or at least in such a way that there was the least amount of pain.

Somewhere some man had stepped into the same room and touched the wall and through he went to the soft, cool, pay dirt that brought him home. Somewhere men did not swing again and again and again and again. He did not know where, but somewhere it must be. Not everyone could live like this. Not everyone could die like this.

And now, oh now, his sobs did slow.

And now, oh now, his breath did slow.

And he died. He died with pride in his heart. For he had killed himself and none had beat him down. They had swung and swung and swung and swung, but he had remained ever strong. He had not given in nor turned away nor shut the doors that lead down the creaky steps, but he had come to the wall and he had fought it.

And for it all, he could not see until he was blind. And for it all, he could not taste bitterness until he had lost what once was sweet. And the same of smell, and the same of touch. And now he knew that this was the way it ended for many man, and for all the strength, the drive, the sweat, the blood, the tears, the screams, the pain, the hammer, and the light, it did not matter. There would be but one more brick for them all. Yet he could still hear the hum of what lay just beyond one more brick and one more brick and one more brick, and so he died with a smile on his face. It was a weak smile, one that only sat there because he could not cry anymore, and his failure was not his fault. He had at least heard the hum. And sometimes all one can do is hear it just beyond the next brick and know it’s there.