Cry of Iron

CW: Body horror, gore, talks of self-hatred, work accident.

It felt as if the cold sheets engulfed me, reminding me of the fate I was left in all because of a single mistake. A single one. The single thought of it made me just want to scream, to cry out–yet I couldn’t. Multiple chords deteriorated all because of the mistake I made. Months ago, I made the simplest mistake that left me unrecognizable. Simply I should have paid attention, kept my head up, and just listened to what Garrick told me. “Always listen for the moderator to see when the furnace will be on”, something he would repeat to me over and over. That day I should’ve listened.

It was November 13th; I was cleaning out the furnace at the Steel Mill. The rough material would fly all around every time I struck it with my shovel, sending up iron ore pellets, sinter, and any sort of disgusting crap that was on the ground that they didn’t need anymore. Sweat beading down my face each time I struck the ground, reminding me of the already humid temperature here. I was the only one in there at the time, since everyone else was on break. They all trusted me though, and everyone liked me, or I thought so myself. Crack, crack, crack, the sound that echoed through the furnace as I kept cracking at it. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, the sound of the furnace turning on. It was so fast, so sudden, I couldn’t think or move. I didn’t even have the chance to move either way, because the fire shot at me. Screams and cries rang out as my body went through pure agony, the feeling of my skin dripping down as it melted from the fire grabbing and scratching at me. My cries and screams were fading as the smoke around filled my lungs with gunk, I could feel the fire burning everything I loved. Once my voice was gone, I knew maybe this was it. This should be it, because what would be worth living if this was the hell I was going through?! But an ear-throbbing siren rang out, the heat ran away as my body collapsed. This was the last thing I heard and remembered before the sound turned to the gentle beeps of the heart monitor.

And now here I was, bandages wrapped around the red, gooey skin that I was left with. I couldn’t blink, I couldn’t move, and I couldn’t even talk. Assumably many members of my family came and visited, but everything was blurry, so their faces mixed with one another. Day by day doctors came in, shoved painkillers down my throat, dropped some sort of liquid on my eyes, and left me to just lay there–to just exist. My whole body throbbed each day, the number of painkillers not even helping with the pain. Instead, they just got me hooked on the damn things, causing me to let out distressed noises which they assumed were from pain of course. The painkillers helped me through my pain and my mind, helping me forget what I lost. Golden locks of hair shriveled away and the tender skin I had all destroyed. You could say I looked like those mannequins they used for anatomy, showing the muscles of the human body. Now, I felt like one of those mannequins, unable to move or talk. Just on display for all to pity and to sob over. The only people who would sob though would be my parents, it wasn’t as if I started my own family myself. If I did, my wife would be disappointed how I got myself into this.

Though, it was January 4th, and my body was barely healing. My breathing got worse, so they put me on a breathing machine which made it painful to try and even breath on my own. The door creaked open and menacing steps came over to my bedside, my eyes weakly moving to see who it was. Garrick, the coworker that had warned me multiple times of the one thing I ended up not doing. It was hard to read his expression, but I could imagine this snobby smirk from how his face was contorted. “What went wrong with you Eddie? You were so handsome–so muscular. You could’ve gotten any lady with those qualities.” It was as though he was mocking me with that obnoxious voice, his voice filled with venom. “No one will believe it when they hear it was me who did it though. I was the one who turned the furnace on while you were in there. You’re damn lucky I even let you live or at least live a little longer. Pray to God you’ll be able to even tell the story.” When he said this, incoherent wails came from me as my body contorted, the heart monitor mixing with them. I felt pure agony and despair, the only sounds I was able to make were cries, and nothing more. The staff was alerted about my state and rushed in, trying to tend to me. The monitor sped up as this all went downhill. Beep, beep, beep, there goes the monitor. Shouts from every corner as they try to get me stable. Swoosh, swoosh, swoosh, there goes the sheet that goes over me once I was finally declared deceased. Doctors mourned as they had to tell my family the news. Garrick was the only one who had that disgusting smirk on his face. He knew well he was safe from the orange and white stripes, from being stuck in a cold cell. Either way, if I did or didn’t die, it wouldn’t have mattered. ‘Why?’ you may ask, but it is because of one simple thing: I couldn't if I could. The only sound I could produce were painful cries and nothing more. Instead of Garrick I was the prisoner, in the hospital gown and silenced. Handcuffed by my injured and detained inside the room. Left silenced, unable to bring justice.