Cut it Loose

Just a little short that I wrote. I feel like it fits pretty well with where my head's been at lately. Feel free to leave comments, I'm all about talking to folks.
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"Is it that bad?"

He coughed. "Yeah. It's gotta go."

I sat up, eyes wide, sending a lightning bolt through the right side of my body. "Go?"

He nodded and grabbed the hurt arm. "It went deep, kid. I can't get it out. Don't have the tools."
He poked the wound with a finger. I felt my eyes roll back in my head. Everything in view shifted from dull, to white, to red, to black.

I woke up later. I don't know how much later. He was still staring at me, his eyes grieving. "If you don't cut it off it'll only get worse."

"It's my arm. I can't."

"You can. It's either that or die out here."

"I'm right handed."

"You can learn how to be left handed. You can't learn to be not dead."

I flinched at that. He was right, of course. There was no reason to not do it. But living without an arm...there were worse injuries to deal with. Better ones, too.

"It just got better, you know," I said. "I had it mangled pretty badly."

He just nodded. He knew all of that. Everyone did. I certainly did. Maybe it was better this way. No chance of getting it hurt if it was gone. My body shook.

"Ok," I said. "Do it."

"I don't have any painkillers. It's gonna have to be my hatchet. It won't be clean."

No kidding.

"Do it."

I lay down on the soft, dew covered grass and stretched out my arm to my side. Moving it even that much hurt, but I stomped down on that pain as quickly as I could. It was about to get a lot worse. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

I heard him speak over me. "Here. This'll keep you from biting your tongue off."

He put a stick in my mouth. Eyes still closed, I clamped my teeth down on it, tasting dirt and bark.

"Ok," he said, "on three."

"One...two..."

Thwak.

The hatchet bit into my arm, just between my shoulder and bicep. It got stuck. I felt it. There was warm blood seeping out. I groaned into the stick and bit down hard. I heard it crack. Or what that my arm, as he pulled the hatchet out? I don't know. Nothing made sense. There was nothing but fire and a black mist that had creeped into my eyes.

I heard the faint whistle of the hatchet when he swung it again. Bones cracked. Muscles tore, were shorn in half. Skin split on both sides of the arm. It was over. It was gone. Not there anymore. I wiggled my fingers. There was no tickling of grass, no sweat on my palm.

Well, at least it's over. That's all I can ask for.

It wasn't until later that I realized I'd been crying.