Day 235 - Hammer Story

Hammer Story

Matthew Ryan Fischer

The hammer could call out to him. He could feel it like gravity and was attracted to it whether he wanted to be or not. The hammer was in a box in the back of his closet. He knew that because he had put it there. But he would have known it was nearby even if he hadn’t been the one to place it where he placed it. He always knew when it was close because he could feel it. If someone had found it or taken it he would have felt something different, something wrong. But instead he felt that slight lonely longing that he always felt when it was nearby but not exactly in his hands.

The hammer had been put away. It had been left behind. It had been lost. He always found the hammer or the hammer always found him. They were parts of each other. There was no escaping that. Whoever crafted it, crafted it for him. He never felt right, never felt fully functional, unless the hammer was there. He always felt slightly lost and abandoned when it wasn’t in his hand. His body craved it. His mind longed for it. He was a junkie and he needed his fix. To hold it was the greatest of simple pleasures. Just to feel the weight in his hand. He didn’t even need to use it or do anything with it. He just liked to know it was there.

He locked the hammer in a box and stored it away. It wasn’t safe. It wasn’t healthy. He told himself that over and over. He knew he couldn’t handle the hammer. He knew that. But he loved it. He needed it. He wanted it. Every waking moment of every day he ached for it. It made sense and it made him feel special. Why wouldn’t he want to feel that feeling over and over, all the time?

The Hammer of Justice – that was what he had called it. It filled him with righteousness and a sense of purpose and responsibility. He didn’t always know what was right and what was wrong and so he was lucky to have his hammer. It gave him missions and messages. It was his instrument of identity and action, and he was its instrument of justice. Or so the hammer told him. Late at night, the hammer told him so. Midday, the hammer told him so. Right after he used it, the hammer told him so.

Sometimes after he used it, his hands grew weak and he couldn’t carry the weight anymore. Luckily, the hammer carried it for him.

Sometimes at night, the voices came, and he couldn’t keep them at bay. Luckily the hammer believed in silence.

Sometimes there was too much blood and too many things he couldn’t remember. Lucky for him, his hammer required no memory.

He had locked it away, thrown it away, and left it behind. He had lost it and tried to destroy it. He told himself to try.

At night, he felt so cold and so alone. Luckily for him, the hammer was never too far away.