Final Step

They gave him a day to mourn the loss of his hands. They kept him in the same room, and he watched in darkness, the people wake up and realize they did not have ears, they did not have eyes, they did not have limbs. They were crippled in some way or the other. For women that were the age of mothers, they brought them dead infants, to carry around, for some others with children, they drugged the wailing kids.

They gave him a day to mourn the loss of his hands. He did so in silence. Inside him emotions swirled. A tsunami of anger, a thundering of sadness, an ocean of emotion. His arms twitched, his eyes burned. His nostrils smelled. His feet tingled, afraid that they were next. They would not be. His head hurt, his back ached. The ground was cold and wet. The air had piss and fear, and defecation. It was strong, it hit you like a blast.

They gave him a day to mourn the loss of his hands. When they let him out into the sunlight, he shielded his eyes with them, but they were not there… he almost cried there and then, but he could not show weakness in front of them. The air smelled fresh and different. It was like he was in a different world. It took him a few minutes to let his eyes get accustomed to it, to the burning light, the strong sensations, after the overpowering smell of bodily waste.

They gave him very bare instructions. He was to figure out the rest. And he was off. He passed by the street that led him to his neighborhood. His heart longed to go. But he did not want to see his mother. He did not want to see his sister. He would do this, and after it was done, after it was done properly, he would go and free them from the life his mother had created and was leading his sister down.

He walked the road by the canal. People were swimming in it, he looked at them wistfully. The hairs on his back rose, he thought everyone was staring at his hands. It was strange, having none. He grimaced and kept walking. Traffic thundered by him. Metal cars carrying people better off than him. People that would never have to go through this. People that would never need to do something as desperate.

He reached the traffic light. People were begging among the cars, there was an old man, hands held in front of and above his face, the sign of destitution, there was a hag, tapping incessantly on the window of a car. He wondered how long ago they had gone to the mafioso. He sighed.

The sun was hot, the air was cool, he could hear the splashing of kids with no worries playing in the dirty canal. He could hear the corn seller selling corn on a cart on the other side. He could smell the coconuts being carried by the skinny man in the clean shalwaar kameez, slices that he would try to sell at this traffic light. He sighed.

He began to beg.