“Okay. If it starts to hurt more, I want you to let me know. This is not an area where you want to be the tough guy who ignores pain.”
Yeah, yeah, I knew. I hated it, but I knew.
I put the prosthesis upright and held it with one hand while using my other to place my stump in the right position. Pain shot through my leg when I pushed it on, and I clenched my teeth. That would become less and less, Kent had promised, and I hoped to hell and back he was right.
What was next? I hadn’t done this enough times yet for it to be routine, but Kent knew better than to help me. The man was a fast learner, and he’d quickly taken note I hated being helped.
Right. I folded the sock down, then pulled up the silicone sleeve and smoothed it out. There, all done. Did I get a sticker now?
“Can I check?” Kent asked, and I nodded.
He was gentle as he felt around, probably looking for spots where I hadn’t smoothed everything out properly. He needn’t worry. I’d been an ammunition specialist long enough to be meticulous with details. The Army even had a saying: “Attention to detail, teamwork is key.”
Kent came to the same conclusion. “Great job. Okay, let’s make our way over to the parallel bars.”
He supported me as I turtle-walked the six feet to the parallel bars, practically panting again by the time I made it. Putting my weight on the prosthesis hurt so damn much, but more frustrating was that I couldn’t seem to figure out how to control my movements.
Somehow, my brain hadn’t realized it should direct this new part of me, that it was in the driver’s seat of our newly acquired lower leg. I looked like a goddamn toddler at times, randomly moving my limb as if it wasn’t attached to me. Which, technically, it wasn’t, I guess.
“Okay, take a breather, and then walk to the other end, putting your weight on your arms as much as you need to. Remember to take small steps, only about a foot in length, and to place your prosthetic foot about two to four inches wide from your left foot. It’s okay to look down to see what you’re doing.”
Regardless of whether it was okay or not, I would have to because my brain got all confused when I tried to walk. It couldn’t feel the prosthetic limb, obviously, so I had no feedback on how it was behaving. Not gonna lie, I had seriously underestimated how hard that was to overcome.
Kent had explained I had to retrain my brain and use visual instead of neurological and kinesthetic feedback, but that took time. Big shocker there.
Sweat pearled on my forehead as I fought my way to the end of the bars, then battled my way back. By the time Kent helped me sit on the bench again for a welcome reprieve, my upper body was covered in sweat.
“You did great,” Kent said. “Take a breather, okay? I’m expecting another patient…” The door opened, and we both looked sideways. “Oh, there he is already.”
Oh, fuck.Him.I didn’t know his name, but I’d seen him around the last two weeks, and the dude was annoying as fuck. So. Fucking. Happy. He constantly sported this ridiculously goofy grin, and nobody could be that happy all the time. And if they were, they should do it somewhere else. This was not a happy place for most people, including me.
“Hey, handsome,” the guy called out to Kent, who grinned at him.
“Good to see you, sunshine. How are you feeling today?”
I watched with jealousy as the guy made his way over to us, already wearing his prosthesis and using crutches to stabilize himself. Like me, he had a lower-leg below-the-knee amputation—though on his left leg—but he was clearly way ahead of me in his recovery.
“I’m peachy. Just peachy.”
Ugh, that was what I meant. Who used words likepeachy? Him being gay was not an excuse. Some of my best friends were gay, including Nash, and so was my brother, and none of them would be caught dead saying something like that.
“Creek, I’d like you to meet Heath, another patient of mine. Heath, this is Sergeant Creek Middleton, United States Army, who has served in the Army for over fifteen years. You guys will be training together.”
Heath’s crystal-blue eyes, as blue as the Pacific on a sunny day, focused on me. “Thank you for keeping us and others safe.”
Okay, that was nice, especially since he’d managed to say it without it sounding like a cliché, and I dipped my head in recognition. Then, Kent’s earlier words registered. Training together? He wanted to pair me up with Mr. Eternal Sunshine here? Hell no.
I opened my mouth to protest but then closed it again. What reason could I give other than the guy annoyed the fuck out of me? I had nothing. Fuck my life, I had to accept this for now, didn’t I? As if my life didn’t suck balls enough.
In her more religious phases, my mom had often quoted some kind of Bible verse about never being given more than you could handle. I wasn’t entirely sure of the details, and Jesus was probably mentioned in there somewhere, but that had been the gist of it. Her religious attacks, as my brother, Forest, and I called them, had never lasted long, thank fuck, but growing up in Texas meant God and Jesus were hard to escape.
I didn’t subscribe to that bullshit. People got dealt shitty cards that were more than they could handle all the time, with or without Jesus. And if Jesus had some kind of grand purpose for me getting my leg blown off, he could fuck right off. No god whoclaimed to love his creation should ever be okay with bad shit like that if you asked me.
“Creek, ready for a second round?” Kent asked, and I nodded automatically. Questions like that had always been rhetorical in the Army.
I hauled myself to my feet, wavering as I tried to find my balance.
“It takes a while to get used to a different weight distribution,” Heath said.
