A Helpless Soul

I looked out at the parched fields. As if by instinct I could feel my own parched throat scratching and dry. The trees looked as terrible as I did. A warm wind blew through and the tattered curtains shivered. Endless questions burned in my mind. What have I done? Or better still, what could I have done?

The answer was clear, like a bright splotchy inkblot on a plain white paper. I am done. I was what I wasn’t. Helpless. Hopeless. Useless. A helpless farmer. A hopeless husband. A useless father.

I stood up like a possessed spirit and walked out of the room. I tripped. I slipped. I fell. At last, I reached my destination. I looked down and my watery reflection looked back at me. With great difficulty, I whispered, “I’m sorry.” With that, I jumped into the well. Congratulations society! I am dead.