can take that into account, and be sensitive if something’s bothering you.”
She didn’t want to trigger me. That was very sweet of her. I hated talking about those cursed months last summer, but this was Emma. I could open up to her. “I can’t remember much of it, if I’m being truthful. I woke up in the hospital a few days later. Looked down, saw that my leg was gone.” I sighed heavily. “The next thing I was told was my father had died.”
“I’m so sorry, Ethan. It must’ve been horrible for you.”
“It was terribly traumatic.” Admitting the words out loud, instead of endlessly repeating them in my head, made a part of myself heal. “I tried to keep a straight face for my mother, and for my country, but my grief was plain to see. There were so many stories from the reporters about how miserable I looked, pushing myself in that wheelchair after my father’s casket as the funeral procession marched through Dolinska. I think that was the worst part of it. How I was expected to keep it together when all I wanted to do was fall apart. And that was exactly how I felt, because I’d come back with pieces of me missing.”
Hot tears began to well against my eyelids. I felt so bitter. Not for myself, but for my father— and the years he’d lost. He still had a long life to live, and it’d been wrenched away from him.
Emma laid a hand on my back. “If it helps, you’ve always seemed whole to me.”
“Because you can’t see what’s underneath. I get phantom pains in my leg daily. I know it’s not really there, but sometimes, I can still feel the leshane biting through the bone.” I winced, as if I could feel it now. “It’s just my mind playing tricks on me. A fanciful illusion. Though it doesn’t stop my brain from thinking my leg is throbbing at the worst times.”
“Why haven’t you ever told me?” Emma’s eyes narrowed in concern.
“I’m pretty good at keeping a mask on, onawilke. I don’t let it slip, not even to myself,” I said.
I took a breath. “Sometimes... if I pretend like something’s not happening to me, I can convince myself it isn’t. I can never forget that I’m an amputee. But I can act like it doesn’t affect me.”
“That’s not true. I can tell it bothers you, Ethan. It’s written in your eyes every day,” Emma said softly.
I hated that I couldn’t hide it from her, or anyone else. “I realize that, Emma, and it kills me. I know at some point I’ll adjust, and become accustomed to it. But I’m resisting because I’ve had to adapt to everything since my father died. It gets old, having to change all that you knew. Nothing’s the same anymore. I want to fight for a little normalcy, even if it’s already gone.”
“Then fight for a new normal,” Emma said. “There’s no use looking back or looking ahead. The only moment that matters is now, and what’s going to make you feel comfortable with your disability in this moment.”
“That’s the thing though, Emma. I can’t get comfortable,” I protested. “My prosthetic is top-of-the-line, but I still get sores and discomfort from using it, especially if it’s more than I should be. There are more days than not I’m walking around in pain.”
I scowled. “I know it’s because I should be resting my leg, and taking time off from my prosthetic, but I hate having it off. I don’t feel whole without it. I feel like less of a man.”
“But you aren’t, though.” Emma moved closer. “You’re just a person, like the rest of us.”
“I shouldn’t be complaining. I’m the lucky one. I lost my leg— my father lost his life,” I said. “And I’m responsible for that.”
“You’re not responsible. You have survivor’s guilt,” Emma said. “Don’t blame yourself for that.”
My shoulders tensed. “I hate knowing I have something that sets me apart. I never wanted to be different. I grew up as a royal— I’d never been excluded. Then that cursed leshane changed everything, and I became an outcast in my own home. Someone who had nothing to offer, a cripple with no value.”
“You want to know what I hate?” Emma asked. “When people say, if you don’t have your health, what do you have? My health is shit, and you know what? I have a lot. I have my friends, and my school, and you, and all the things