Something short.
Weight on my Shoulders
It's strange, this weight on my arms. I can feel it pulling me, dragging me down. And yet, I can't feel it, can't feel it like the hand that had been there before the cold, heartless metal, and I hate the feeling. It's not part of me, it's wrong, it's alien.
But for Al, I need to accept it.
Then there's my leg. It too, bears the same heaviness. Each step is hard, drags across the confined wood of the house. How am I supposed to move forward if I can't walk? How am I supposed to do anything like this?
But for Al, I could stand it.
I needed to get stronger, so I could bear with weight on my shoulders. Not only the strain of this unfeeling metal, but also the pain, and the guilt. Guilt for what I had done for him – how could I be thinking so selfishly when he has it so much worse? But it doesn't help, only makes the burden heavier. Yet, it is also what pushes me forward, that keeps me going even when my body screams at me to stop. I cough blood, red specks on the brown mahogany floor, and I don't regret it. I don't regret, don't stop. For even if this leg of mine drags for the rest of my life, even if I must bear this burden for the rest of my life, I won't stop. I can't.
Because I'd do anything for Al.
