cardboard
Mar 1, 2022 12:41:21 GMT -5
Post by thompson harvard - d2b - arc on Mar 1, 2022 12:41:21 GMT -5
I don't know if I like the feeling of a broken foot. It's not that I dislike it. It's a battle wound, which makes me a warrior already. I basically already won this shit. If I can survive with a broken foot - might as well cut it off. I'm no winner of war if I don't leave healthy.
If you're a winner of war without scars, you're a liar. You're a liar to the fibrous tissue that builds up and collects on your skin, creating a bump that feels funny to run your finger over. It feels scaley. Like a lizard's back if you were told to give it a rub. A snake would be a better comparison - I am the snake from Eden's garden, after all.
Sometimes you pick at it for fun, the scar. The feeling of peeling it back with your fingernail becomes therapeutic. Or maybe you do it so that scar always grows back, reminding you of the carelessness that led you to the scar. Or maybe you don't like seeing the scar. Or maybe your hands just need something to do in the moments of silence, like they weren't supposed to be resting by your side, doing nothing.
In one of the books on the shelf of my suite, the story spoke of men and women returning from home with lost fingers, toes, hands, feet, legs, arms. They returned in a wheelchair or with one of those fake legs that are supposed to represent the real thing. Or they came back with nightmares. Keeping you up late at night, reminding you of your past, as if the jolting from a slamming door or the side-eye of a person cutting food with a knife. The distrust. That was war. That was winning. Sacrificing as much of yourself as possible to return home to the people that you loved. But it didn't matter because you were alive.
I don't know if I love anyone. I don't really have someone specific to return home to besides the horses in the barn. Maybe January - he's a sweet kid. When we first met I was building a slightly better chicken coop. He offered to help as best as he could - which was really just him attempting to paint the damn thing. I didn't trust him to hammer a nail into his hand. But he helped a lot, and it was nice. Sure, I'm named after his shitty ass grand-uncle. But I am not him, and January isn't the mirror of him either. His help was like this Canvas guy, I think that's what he said his name was. I'm bad with names, but if they help me out I'll try and remember it. It's my way of saying thank you.
"So, Canvas-" I hope that was right, a grunt following his name as we try to hobble my way out. I took a few steps on my own but it wasn't going to work. "What's up with you? The story, all that crap." It sounds ingenuine, but this is about as genuine I can get. "I guess if we're gonna be in this together we should probably know each other a bit, huh?" Hopefully this works. I wonder if we'll find anything useful, or if we'll just be walking aimlessly. It's pretty fucking hot in here but I'm used to it, due to the summers spent laying in the barn with only the shade to save me.[ gathers 15 ft bandages ]