How did I arrive here, my beautiful hands torn and blistered...

It began with the musician. I had been looking after his amp for the last year as he took an academic excursion. It was a year ago: it was the last day to move out. I was trying to figure out what else to pack. He came in a flurry of activity, frantically asking what the hell he was going to do.

By a special set of circumstances, my room was to remain as it was through the summer. I agreed to hold this amp for him, as he could not ship it from this bedamned hamlet.

A year later, after precarious storing, moving, and busting my ass to make sure that the amp was not stolen or destroyed, we had agreed to come and pick it up at 2pm today.

He did not show. The guy who had my boxes in storage also didn't show.

I wrote him several emails, went by his place half a dozen times, and left notes. He was to come at 7.

The storage guy threw my stuff at me at 7 almost exactly. The musician was nowhere in sight. As the amp must be carried by two people, I could do nothing but wait for him. Minutes leaked into hours, night coming imperceptibly. I was livid with anger. I could do nothing. I was powerless without help.

A friend came by who happened to live near storage and asked what was up. I gave her the situation in a nutshell. 15 minutes later I was jogging back to campus to get a dolly while she looked over my things.

Dolly in hand, I jogged back and relieved her of her duty. She helped me put the amp and my printer onto the mover and off I went into the dusky confines of dreary night lights.

I forget how much time elapsed before I finally made it back to my place. The elevator was out, my friends or complete strangers nowhere to be found.

There was a steep flight of stairs, the only set that allowed me to maneuver the dolly properly. I grunted in sheer exhaustion as I propelled it up one step. Then another, and another, and another. A flight later my hands were sore, my hip out of place, my back aching.

I continued. One step at a time, a heave, a massive grunt, veins bulging from my forehead as blood coiled around my face like a serpent. Just a few more, blood, just a few more, flesh, just a few more...done.

Crashing the dolly on the floor of my room, I heaved for minutes. I came here to write an email to the musician, to leave a hostage note for his amp. My pain would be compensated or I would sell what he had given to me to look after.

My hands...why my hands. Why the fuck am I here? What godless force decided that I needed THIS above all else?!

Can I use a pen...I need to curl the finers right. I can do it, I'll make them do it. I'll make them crack out of place again if I have to.

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