The Argument for Severing a Limb

A guest post by Russell Mickler

If you’re a regular reader of Estranged, you may notice this piece strikes a different tone from the personal essays (my own and others) that I usually publish—which is part of the reason I’m publishing it. There are as many ways to describe the pain of estrangement as there are people. Plus, the metaphor of the severed limb really captured my imagination. Enjoy! - Maggie

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Functional Improvement.

Psychological Well-Being.

Chronic Pain or Non-Responsiveness.

Irreversible Damage or Trauma.

Improved Quality of Life.

Medical Necessity.

I paused on the last; one could argue it wasn’t. Regardless, it had to go. It was a warm June night, a Friday, and its itch kept me awake. Maybe the discomfort was merely a trick of the mind, but it was bothersome and nagging. Persistent. I needed to rake it with my fingernails and dig deep under my skin.

I retreated to my couch.

Perhaps more research was warranted, a salve drawn from science, religion, or the wisdom of more patient people. The answer was out there. I spent hours on my laptop — searching, reading, soothing — yet, around 4 a.m., I gazed at the ceiling, my arms folded, my jaw clenched, resisting the urge.

Was there nothing else to do but scratch?

Defeated, I gave in.

Where spoken words might lodge in my mouth, I’m more trusting of a keyboard. I wrote a treatise of facts and idealism. I described discrimination as a member of the LGBTQI community. I spoke of my love and respect for them. Although I wrote in the spirit of hope and good conscience, I poisoned my e-mail with an ultimatum: I’ll cut them off if I have to.

By 5 a.m., all that was left was to press SEND.

With a finger hovering over the mouse, my gut wrenched with worry. Was I being reckless? The consequences would be irreversible. My rational mind interceded, convincing me to wait and consider more practical alternatives after I’d had some sleep.

I rejected it. I’d endured too many business meetings, holiday parties, galas and charity dinners, social events, and family gatherings. The polite smiles, the glaring hypocrisy.

It irritated and festered.

I needed to be rid of it.

I honed my knife.

This was my ritual, severing. It was my response to social injustice. I trimmed people, places, and corporations, discarding the fat and bettering my whole by denying them attention, money, and time.

But these were my parents.

My actions would be drastic, and I needed to understand their positions before I acted. My e-mail read as a list of complaints nailed to a church door:

Christian hegemony.

White nationalism.

Homophobia and transphobia.

Systemic racism.

Science and climate denial.

Voter suppression.

The erasure of reproductive rights, bodily autonomy.

Wealth inequality.

Government without accountability.

Insurrections.

Prohibiting diversity.

The very notion of blue people.

A blind adherence to falsehood — an allegiance to what isn’t and never existed.

I asked them:

Is this the totality of what you’re about?

Are those who espouse such things your ideal measure of leadership and legitimacy?

Can you not imagine better?

Are you blind to the harm?

Why are you not appalled?

The e-mail sat poised at the crux of my elbow like a dagger.

I wondered if their response would be genuine, sincere, apologetic—an empathic cry for familial reconciliation? Would hostage-taking elicit a change in their behavior? Would confrontation make a difference?

Foolishly, I believed they’d have no rational choice but to agree with me, so I apologized at the end. They didn’t deserve this. Yes, threatening such violence was crude, but the way I saw things, it was either yes or no, true or false, black or white. You’re either for something or against it; you either tolerate your role in injustice or sever it. To divorce yourself from cancer, I wrote, you cut it away; doctors generally agree you’re better off without it.

I hesitated. Then, I sent the e-mail, my knife steady, unwavering.

Their response took nearly a week.

My parents expressed shock, offense, and misunderstandings, countering with a peace settlement to live with differing opinions.

They failed to take me seriously.

I hastily wrote back, the blade once again poised at my arm, piercing my skin.

First, I thanked them for giving me such a fine weapon — a sharp instrument of critical thinking honed by my education and privilege, a gift bestowed by their parenting. It made this so much easier.

Second, an opinion, I retorted, is a preference for tea or coffee; a donut or a croissant; to walk or drive. Racism isn’t an opinion; misogyny isn’t, either. Nor is intolerance, greed, gerrymandering, or fascism. These things are real: they metastasize into harmful policy through their political action.

I pleaded with them:

Is any revulsion or disdain within you?

Can you not see the wisdom of better choices?

Is there anything I can say to dissuade you?

Will you refuse to participate any longer?

“We are conservative,” they replied, as if that alone was a license to justify their complicity, their apathy.

And that was it.

I needed to strike deep, cut (not saw), wrap around the bone, and make it clean, and without ceremony or prayer, I practiced my ritual and amputated my arm.

With one hand poking at the blood-stained keys, I wished them the best in life, and insisted they never contact me, my family, my wife, my partners, or my children ever again.

Two years later, I lie awake on another warm June night following another stunted judicial decision.

Occasionally, my arm bleeds and itches; it stings on anniversaries, holidays, and birthdays. Admittedly, they’re not entirely gone. I see them in my children. I hear them in my head. They are the ringing in my ears, forever here, circulating in my heart (for I failed to cut off my arm in time).

Still, I regret nothing. I am thankful that those I choose to love are spared their corruption.

They’re a memory now, my parents—a phantom limb.

I’m convinced I’m better off without it.

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Russell Mickler writes fantasy and science fiction. His micro/flash work appears in several short story anthologies and magazines. Black Anvil Books is his imprint for self-published fantasy and serialized fiction. www.black-anvil-books.com