Page 12 of Ripping the Odds

“Fine,” I huffed. “You win.”

There was no point in arguing with her anyway. My sister was a master negotiator. Growing up, she could talk herself out of almost any situation. Everyone thought she’d go on to become a lawyer, so when she declared physical therapy as her major in college, I was shocked. Seeing the immediate change in her demeanor as an aide wheeled me into the therapy wing of the hospital an hour later, though, I understood. Daria smiled the first genuine smile I’d seen cross her lips in days as she looked around the massive space filled with equipment. She was in her element. It made me happy… and terrified me.

A male therapist holding a tablet approached us. It was the same man who’d come by my room yesterday to begin my rehabilitation. I’d kicked him out. Shit.

“I’m glad you changed your mind,” he said with a grin.

“I didn’t.”

His grin didn’t falter with my attitude. In fact, it grew until his teeth were exposed.

“First things first. I need to do an initial assessment. My name is Anthony, by the way.”

“Prudence.” I gave him my full name.

A whimper left my lips when he squatted to remove the blanket covering my lower half. He froze, scrutinizing my face, and wasn’t oblivious to my hands which shook violently in my lap. It had been three days since surgery. Three long days in which I’d avoided looking at what was left of my leg.

“Pru.” Daria’s agonized voice sounded like it was a million miles away. “I’m so sorry. We can come back another day.”

“Slow your breaths, Prudence,” Anthony said from his crouch in front of me. “In for three, hold for three, out for three.”

Within minutes, the panic began to subside. The nervousness remained thrumming under my skin, but somehow I didn’t feel quite as helpless as before.

“Thank you.” My voice cracked.

Rather than accept my gratitude, he shooed my sister out of the way, pushing my wheelchair behind a partition in the far right corner. We were hidden from the rest of the room. My eyes went wide when he bent down and began lifting his left pant leg.

“What the hell are you doing?” Daria shrieked.

“Showing your sister that she can trust me,” he said without skipping a beat.

He uncovered his leg up to his knee, except there was no skin. It took a few seconds for my brain to register what I was seeing. He was wearing a prosthetic. Anthony––my therapist––was an amputee.

“How?” I uttered before I could stop myself. “Nevermind. You don’t have to tell me.”

“Motorcycle accident. Five years ago. I thought my future ended on that stretch of road. It wasn’t easy, in fact it was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to face to date. Thank God for my incredible family and even more amazing fiancée who refused to let me give up. Because of them, I realize losing a leg paled in comparison to losing my life. They showed me that the possibilities are endless, Prudence. Are you ready to see them?”

“Pru. You can call me Pru.”

“Okay, Pru. Step one.”

He didn’t say anything else. He didn’t have to. Suddenly, I found myself alone behind the partition. They were giving me a choice, letting me control the narrative. It was entirely my decision whether or not I was ready to see my leg.

“Rip it off like a bandaid,” I muttered to myself.

Sucking in a breath, I gripped the corner of the blanket, quickly tossing it off my lap. The air left my lungs in a hurry. Fear of the unknown had become the pillow my head laid on every night. Reality didn’t live up to the gory, gruesome scene my imagination had conjured. It didn’t even come close. An ace wrap covered my skin from mid-thigh to a few inches below my knee joint where my leg ended.

No blood.

No open wounds.

Just…nothing.

Seeing the––dammit, I didn’t even know what to call it. Stump? Nub, maybe? Whatever it was, physically looking at it for the first time made it real. Drowning in the haze of grief for three days had gotten me nowhere except behind in my treatment plan. It was up to me whether I would continue living like a shadow or drag myself into the light.

With more determination than I’d felt in days, I laid my palm flat on my upper thigh. Slowly, I moved my hand down, sliding over my knee cap until it curved around the end of my right leg. The strange thing was, when I closed my eyes, I swore I felt myself wiggle my toes.

“The brain works in mysterious ways.” Anthony’s deep voice came from over my left shoulder. I didn’t open my eyes and I didn’t turn my head. He took that as an invitation to continue. “I’d like to say the phantom sensations get better⁠—”