FICTION: The Thief's Hand

The Thief’s Hand

a very short story by Joshua Matthew Meeks

Todd wakes alone, just before dawn. Somewhere in the distance he hears the beeping of a large truck driving in reverse.

Fear overwhelms him, but he forces himself to recall in detail the commitment he made last night. With grim recognition, he finds his resolve undiminished. 

How many times had he awoken to find himself sick and alone, brain screaming in the fog, his soul begging for release, trapped in a cycle so powerful and deceptive he laughed when he first heard it called a drug. 

He rises from his bed. Although he walks in darkness, he knows the way. He’d seen it all the night before in a moment of horrific clarity. As one foot steps in front of the other, he knows just what he needs, and where exactly he must go. 

The average human life consists of 28,000 days. How many of his days had been stolen from him? Half of his days? More? He can’t remember, and the remaining memories are fading. “Not today,” he prays, desperate for the strength to see it through to the end. “I’ll never go back.” 

As he approaches the kitchen, the light he left on the night before illuminates his path. A scrawled note on the chopping block says it all:

Free yourself from the cycle, or remain forever a tragic character in a never-ending trial. 

A cleaver is lodged deeply in the heavy wood. He’d slammed it down the night before, testing his strength. 

He can see himself reflected in the polished blade. There’s no fear in his eyes, but he can feel it. Fear that he will never escape unless he finds a way to remember to never come back here again. Fear of the desperate plan he’d concocted to escape the roundabout in which he’d been trapped nearly all of his adult life. Fear that he lacks the power to see it through. 

The pile of clean towels are where he’d set them reverently the night before. The soap, the antiseptic, the bandages, the needle and thread - all laid out neatly on a shelf above the sink. 

He places his hand on the chopping block, palm down, a scar on his wrist gleams red. He slowly raises the cleaver above his head. 

There’s no sound but the pounding of his own heart as the sun breaks the horizon, and the thief is relieved of his hand.

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