Six-fingered Jack

I had a friend once who had six fingers on his right hand. Lucky for him he was left handed so he didn't have to go through not so pleasant emotions every time he wrote something. The thing that bothered his the most, though, was finding suitable gloves, for winter around here gets rough. Actually that was the reason we became friends - my grandmother was in the knitting business and Jack was her customer.
He was a nice guy, eleven-fingered Jack. He had this strange, almost awkward sense of humour. You could never guess what his job was... He was a designer of custom made scare-crows. Cool huh! Jack had the brilliant imagination of a genius. For my 18th birthday he made this amazing scare-crow for me- in the shape of a tree creature.
In his free time, Jack was going to the high-way and counting cars. A peaceful one that guy was.Such a shame...
Things started to get bad when a sixth toe started growing on each of his feet. A while after that he stopped walking and getting outside his home. A while after that I found him dead in his home. He killed himself with rat poison. I still remember the scared look in his empty eyes...
Those memories keep haunting me even in my best moments, reminding me happy endings don't exist. I've grown to believe it was his own choice - he wanted it, life, to end and did it. But what about everything that is left, everything he left? I burned my scare-crow, not out of anger. I felt and still feel like he left an incrustation of his soul in every scare-crow. So I've tried to set his spirit free.
It turns out you can never have both: the choice to take your own life and the privilege to leave prints of you after... The imprints fade away on their own, consumed by the same oblivion Jack chose to go into.
I destroyed every scare-crow he had ever made. Yesterday I found a six-fingered right hand glove. I miss Jack... And wonder if he got rid of those useless fingers of his...