One Hundred and Four
I learned to conquer the perfidious pain. In my own mind I push it to the back where it will wait until I lose focus and rise to the fore again.
It's as evil as the treachery I discovered on Coruscant.
I might be able to mentally push away the scars, but I am forced to acknowledge them daily.
I place the bacta patches over them quickly so I don't have to look at them too long. The more I see them the more I am reminded of the day the Republic turned its back on me.
I never did reach thirty missions.
Twenty nine apparently was enough.
If the truth be told, there probably was no exit contingency. Just another lie under a layer of others.
I walk slowly at times and with the loss of muscle tone, I will never be able to recover fully. I find my physicality, or lack thereof, repulsive. The frustration of not being at my peak is unbearable.
I know what I am capable of, and this isn't me.
I walk hunched over and grey dominates my temples; not the shiny black hair I had as a young fit soldier.
The dark circles under my eyes and my pallid complexion are further reminders of my new condition, my new reality.
The small tattoo is still there, and it the only thing I force myself to look at daily.
The mark I once wore with pride another remnant of who, and what I used to be.
I am alone.
But I now have a strength I never thought possible.
I am capable of enduring great pain.
I am learning to come to accept my new life and all the frailties of it.
I am testament to how we can overcome the bacta.
I found myself underneath the layers of pain.
I am strong.
I was an ARC, now, I am more.
I am free.
.