LOST LEG
A/N: Set early in the Rehabilitation series. Written for Writers Anonymous' Broken Object Writing Challenge.
All disclaimers apply.
Brandon's prosthetic knee didn't budge when he struck the lower ground with his sound foot. The rubbish-laden plastic bag slipped out of his hand as his face hit the concrete.
Damn prosthesis. A fall always spawned those words in his mind, but his anger would never last for more than a second. That defective artificial leg was part of him - more like his dying limb before it left him. Standing with it felt like having only one leg supporting his body, yet it could still provide him some mobility. This enabled some physical activities to keep him healthy.
And he cared for it as much as his lost leg. The doctor had told him that cleaning the socket would suffice, but he always wiped its exterior with a cloth after a walk. He never hesitated to wear a mismatched pair of shoes just to protect the synthetic foot either.
Stretching his neck, Brandon picked up the plastic bag with his jagged teeth. Then he pushed himself up with his only hand, instinctively taking a few small steps backwards once he stood.
After taking the plastic bag from his mouth, Brandon elbowed the trailer's door shut and began hobbling across the windless labyrinth of cars. Time to throw away the rubbish and grab the free newspaper from the lobby. Mika, his little protégé, would definitely love a clean home and something to kill boredom after a stressful day at school. And if I keep training like this, Mr. Biscoe will soon let me work. I can start paying my debt.
A huge garbage bin stood at the corner of the parking basement, with empty cigarette packs and soda cans scattered around it. Approaching it with a sigh, Brandon wondered if throwing garbage in its place was that hard. A little girl like Mika could even complete that task without a fuss.
Brandon threw the plastic bag into the half-empty waste bin and limped away from the chaos. Even if he'd had a better prosthetic leg, he wouldn't bother with the rubbish on the floor. Picking them up would only strain his back, and some irresponsible guardsmen would soon make a mess again.
As he hobbled towards the elevator, dullness gradually built up in his back. Knowing what impeded mobility would cause, he decided to rest on the empty bench beside the elevator. However, he couldn't help but growl at the absence of the guardsmen around. Even if they were hungry, they should at least, leave a man behind to watch over the area.
Sitting on the bench and wiping the sweat off his temple, Brandon looked at his stretched prosthesis. Even if its immobile knee turned him into a laughingstock whenever he sat down, he would never want to get rid of the artificial leg. Without it, he wouldn't have the ability to walk for a lifetime.
His lost foot throbbed as he waited. Smiling, Brandon slipped his fingers into his shoe and rubbed his synthetic foot. Funny how this trick always alleviated the phantom sensation; not even Dr. William could explain why. But Brandon suspected that his mind had something to do with it. Since the day he had his prosthesis on and considered it as part of his body, the strange feeling attacked him less often. And when it did, it only haunted him briefly.
Suddenly, the elevator door opened. A brunette man in a black suit stepped out of it, a bottle of water and a newspaper in his grasp.
"Sorry, Sir. I just ran out of water."
Understandable, Brandon thought with a nod, but you shouldn't have left this area completely unprotected.
"But really, as long as you're here, I don't think people will dare to mess around the basement." Putting the bottle of water and newspaper down on the bench, he sat beside Brandon. "A necrolyzer like you can pound them into the dirt with ease."
What if the attackers come with anti-necrolyze rifles in their hands? Pulling his fingers out of his shoe, Brandon sighed. "I can't take out a group of people quickly, Daniel. I can't throw cars with just an arm."
"Use a gun then. Everybody knows you're fantastic with firearms."
Still too slow. However, Daniel's words managed to carve a smile on Brandon's face.
"You wanna go to the lobby to grab the newspaper as usual?" Brandon nodded, and Daniel laughed softly. "You can take mine if you're feeling lazy."
Brandon's smile faded at that. I leave the trailer to train my body. With a thrust from his hand, he rose to his feet. Slowly, he limped towards the elevator and pushed the "up" button beside it.
Chilly wind blew across the lobby of Millennion Tower, which Brandon liked. Microbes would never thrive on his cool and dry skin. However, a few guardsmen there looked at him funny, troubling his heart a little.
Ignoring the guards, he walked unevenly around the foyer with an aching back. After swiping today's newspaper from the stand, he sat on the steel bench beside it. He held the paper up to shield him from the bothersome guardsmen.
Unfortunately, the front page of the newspaper didn't interest him. Well, when would that kind of thing exist anyway? Money talked way too much; only something good for a mafia organization's publicity would make it to the headline news.
As he flipped the newspaper with his thumb, his lost toes twitched. Brandon simply nudged the synthetic foot with his healthy one.
With the phantom sensation dissipating, his mind began to wander. If this defective prosthesis broke... No. This prosthesis must never break. He snarled. This is part of my body, even if it isn't perfect. It gives me the chance to walk.
He decided to check the other pages. Aside from the crossword section, the health page often drew him in. It sometimes gave him tips to keep Mika healthy, although they didn't always work. Once, after learning about the health benefits of dark chocolate, he'd suggested Mika snack on it instead of other types of confections. But it only ended up with her eating it begrudgingly due to its sheer bitterness and her respect to him.
Today, though, nothing in that section caught his attention. Information about how to prevent stroke didn't sound useful for a kid, except maybe for educational purposes.
As he flipped the page again, a man's voice called him, "You are very impatient. And stubborn. You haven't undergone the physiotherapy even once, yet you walk around with that defective prosthesis." It sounded too hoarse to be a guardsman's voice, but if it happened to be Biscoe and he didn't react to it, what would the mob boss think of him?
Brandon lowered the newspaper hesitantly, but at the sight of Biscoe, he smiled in relief.
Sitting beside him, Biscoe grumbled, "It's not like resting will hurt you."
You said so because you never spent many days confined to your bed, Brandon mumbled in his heart. You don't know how it feels to have your muscles locking up on you.
"Admittedly, I'm impressed with you. You actually walk pretty well," Biscoe said. "What makes you so eager to practice walking? Is it just so that you can leave your bed or wheelchair?"
"It's to keep my body strong. It's so that I can pay my debt."
"Debt?"
"You spent a lot to restore my life."
"Nobody asked you to return the favor, silly boy." Biscoe placed a hand on Brandon's shoulder. "We're a family. We're supposed to help each other without expecting anything in return."
But if you only give and never take, you'll run out of things to give. Brandon only nodded, though. Never had he liked arguing with his superior.
"Return to the trailer and rest up, Brandon. It's better for you." Biscoe stood up. Walking away, he added, "Remember. Nothing good will come from impatience and obstinacy."
Brandon failed to see his activity as a manifestation of impatience and obstinacy. He had grown tired of lying on the bed; it had pained him when he waited for his incision to heal. Every night, never had he managed to close his eye before he found a more comfortable position on the bed.
Stepping out of the elevator and into the parking basement, he heard Daniel say from beside him, "It took pretty long, didn't it?"
Brandon nodded, limping away from Daniel. After talking to Biscoe, he had spent some time hobbling around the lobby and the ground level parking lot. The activity had invigorated his body, although the increasingly unstable prosthetic ankle had threatened to knock him down several times.
If his back hadn't acted up again and his sweat hadn't drenched his shirt until it clung to his skin, he would've wandered around the basement instead of going home. With the trailer's door opened, he struck the ledge with his sound foot before lifting his artificial leg. His ears registered a thump from behind, and the metal floor rose to meet his face.
He got up with a thrust from his hand, but he never managed to land his synthetic foot on the ground. For a lifetime, he would never manage to do that again, since the foot had left the artificial leg.
Striking the ground with the rod of his prosthesis led to another fall. But he quickly rose to his feet again, only to topple almost in an instant. And a snap resounded, telling Brandon that his prosthesis - his leg - couldn't take it anymore. This isn't right! This can't be happening to me!
He looked back. His synthetic foot lay outside the trailer. A broken rod along with metal scraps created a trail behind him. My leg... Not my leg! Tears streaming out of his widened eye, Brandon let out an anguished howl and smashed the metal floor with his fist.
From now on, an hour would feel like a day.
"You still walked some more after talking with me, didn't you?" Standing in front of his bed, Biscoe sighed. "I've told you. Nothing good will come from impatience and obstinacy. You pushed your prosthesis beyond its limit. Now, you didn't even have the chance to walk."
A roar burst out of Brandon's mouth. His anger fueled his lost leg to kick the mob boss in the face, but only the residual limb moved, saving Biscoe from a potentially fatal injury and Brandon from a crime. Realizing that, he murmured, "I'm sorry."
"Never mind." Biscoe turned around and began walking away. "Rest well, Brandon." Before he left the trailer, though, he stopped to look at his watch. "Miss Mika is coming home soon. Your day won't be too boring again. Trust me."
Once Biscoe closed the trailer's door, Brandon let his mind wander. This wouldn't have happened if he hadn't walked too much. But without a strenuous exercise, he would never learn to walk by himself, and his body would lose most of its strength. In the future, he would never have the chance to repay Biscoe.
Will Mr. Biscoe fix my prosthesis? For a moment, he thought it was impossible. Biscoe might assume that he would break it again with his impatience and obstinacy.
Suddenly, his lost leg flexed, wanting him to get up and walk again. Stop bothering me! He slammed his stump against the bed, terminating the phantom sensation almost in an instant. But a few seconds later, it bothered him again.
Frustration hurt his head, and his throat was parched from crying. Tired of everything, Brandon remembered his assumption about the phantom sensation. His mind - everybody's mind - was a powerful thing; one could solve his or her problem with that alone.
Forget about it. It's not like you've lost everything. Maybe someday, Mr. Biscoe will understand and fix the prosthesis. You just need to be patient.
With that, gentle darkness swept him away, granting him the peaceful rest he needed.