Ouch My Hand

My parents were in the middle of separating.

The lease on the house in Dyke, where they’d been renting, wasn’t getting renewed. The owners said they wanted to move back in, but I’m sure they were just done dealing my parents bullshit and late rent payments.

Mom was moving to the other side of Ruckersville.
Dad was heading for some cheap apartment up Afton Mountain, closer to whatever job he had that month.

I was asked to help pack the moving truck.

I still had some shit at their place.
Most of it was already boxed up and stacked in the garage—my corner, on top of a table, all the way to the ceiling.
Books, toys, Legos. I didn’t even know what else.

In hindsight? Shit I didn’t need.

But when you grow up poor, you cling to everything you own.
Even if it’s junk.
Clinging keeps you stuck.
But throwing it out?
That felt like giving up on myself.

It was a Saturday.
Hot, but nice.
Both garage doors were open.
The moving truck was parked across the driveway, perpendicular to the doors.

I don’t remember if Dad was there.

I grabbed one of the old wooden kitchen chairs to stand on.
It was missing the cushion. Just wood and memory.

I reached for the top row of boxes.
Twelve-foot ceiling. Three rows deep.
Even at 6’2“, I had to stretch.

The table underneath was a circular ‘70s relic—
Chrome legs, yellowed plastic bumper, expanding leaves long lost.
I stepped one foot onto it to reach the back column.

Got the first box down.
It said fragile.
No idea what was in it.

Tossed it onto the pile.
Didn’t care.

Second time up, I didn’t think twice.

Stepped back onto the table.

Grabbed for the next box.

And then—
That rollercoaster feeling.
The slow-motion flutter in your stomach.

The chair behind me fell.

The table split.

I hadn’t noticed the locks were broken—or never engaged.

The halves of the table slid apart under me.

My body dropped—feet pushing the halves wider.
My hands reached for anything.
Air.

I crashed through the center.
Hit the boxes.
Then the floor.

My left hand landed first.
Then my face.
Then my right hand.

The table—
half of it came down like a guillotine.

It landed inches from my head.
Directly on my left hand.

I screamed.

“Fuuuuuuck!”

White-hot pain flashed.
Vision blurred.

Mom came rushing in.

Not to check on me.

To yell at me.

“Stop cursing!”

I stood up.
Still in agony.

“I think my hand is broken.”

“No it’s not. You’re moving your fingers. Just sprained.”

I was pretty sure it was broken.

But she wanted the truck packed.

She taped a bag of ice around my hand with a rag.
That was it.

I kept going.
Box after box.
Pain slicing with every lift.

I went home and passed out.

Sunday: pain.
Monday: worse.

Tuesday, I finally saw a doctor.

He sent me straight to orthopedics.
Dr. Pannunzio was the surgeon he referred me to.

I had three fractured metacarpals.

The third?
Broken in multiple places.

“It’s going to require surgery,” he said.

I requested a plastic surgeon for the opening and closing of the incision.
It was a smart move, the plastic surgeon went in through my palm and left minimal scarring.

After surgery, they set my fingers in traction.
It looked like I was flipping people off.

One cop pulled me over.

“Did you just flip me off?”

I waved my cast hand in the air like a banner.

“Fuck the police.”