Unworthy

I am not worthy. The blood on my hands is not just mine, and it soaks through to the bone. I am not worthy. But these hands of mine still move, the fingers still bend, my arm still reaches, reaches for you.

“Pick it up,” I think. It’s a thought from deep inside me, a thought that feels more like an instinct. Pick it up. Wrap your fingers around the handle, and defile this holy thing with your blood soaked hands. Pick it up.

I am not worthy. And still my fingers curl around your handle. “Forgive me,” I mutter. I say it over and over, like a mantra. Like a prayer. I’m drowned out by the cries of others, by their screams, their terror. The air reeks of death and agony, and I am not innocent. I am not worthy. Pick it up.

My arm is heavy with the weight of you, and I lean to one side as I attempt to stand. “Please,” I say with more breath than voice. My shoulder feels like it’ll pop out of place, but still I try, still I pull. “Please.” I am not worthy. “Please.”

When the Hero died and you fell from their grasp, I watched from a hidden space, hands over my mouth. I had done enough, I’d decided. I had fought enough. I’d killed enough. I could save no one. So I watched them. I watched as they died, as they fell, as they failed. I watched you fall into the mud next to your wielder, and a single thought popped into my mind: “I am not worthy.” And I stood.

Slowly, you begin to lift from the ground, and my muscles scream with the effort. I am not worthy. I know this. And still I left the safety of my hiding spot to get to you. If I die here, unworthy, at least I may die brave.

Perhaps that’s what I want, to die. To put an end to my own suffering. To avoid the aftermath, if there is an after. Perhaps this is my attempt to feel deserving of a hero’s death, of a cozy seat in the afterlife. I am not worthy. Even in this act, I am selfish. Even now, I am impure.

I am not worthy, but inch by inch you raise from the ground. I begin to lift with both hands, as if it will change anything. “I’m sorry,” I say. Sorry for daring to touch you, sorry for using you for my own selfish needs. And still I am unworthy. And still you raise higher.

Soon they will see me, see what I’m attempting to do. They’ll see my hands grasped around you, and they’ll laugh at my effort. Will I be able to swing you by then? Will my stubbornness be enough to wield you? Or will I receive the death I crave? Will I die next to this Hero? Will they confuse our bodies in the morgue? I am not worthy. And still you raise.

Not for a second do you become lighter; not for a second do I become worthy. I drag you behind me, etching a line into the mud. Worthy or not, selfish or not, stubborn as I am, I must try. I am not worthy. Ahead of me, a boy cowers in front of someone much bigger than him. They laugh as he cries, as he screams, as he begs. Ahead of me is a target. And I am not worthy.

You move behind me, and if it were not for the sounds of war around us, the sound of you’re dragging would be deafening. I am not worthy, but you follow me, as quiet as you can be. And they do not hear me. And they do not see me. And I will die trying. And I will die unworthy.

I am not worthy, but I bend at the knees and lift. If I survive this day, I will spend a week after it sore. Muscles that I didn’t know I had strain with the effort, but you allow me to lift you. I am not worthy, but I lift you. And I scream. And I swing.

I am not worthy, but to someone, I will appear so.