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At birth, I was diagnosed with congenital limb length discrepancy or LLD for short. This was due to fibular hemimelia, which means I was born without a shinbone. At the age of two, my right leg was so much shorter than the left I couldn’t walk. The difference in size was too severe for a simple shoe lift. My mom was presented with two options—to lengthen my right leg or to amputate it.
Amputation and a prosthetic limb wasn’t a choice my mom would consider. Instead, she married a wealthy man to pay for a lifetime of operations and expensive physiotherapy. Fine. The operations only lasted until my adolescence, but it feels like a lifetime. Surgery involved making cuts in the leg bone and attaching an external metal frame and bar. The frame and bar slowly pulled the bone, lengthening it.
The process lasted for years. My childhood memories are made up of multiple infections, chronic muscle stiffness, and joint contracture. Other side-effects included hip subluxation and scoliosis. By the age of six, I was a walking medical encyclopedia. While other children learned to read Poppy and Sam, my vocabulary existed of medical terms.
When the fixator was finally removed, I wore a leg cast for several months. My legs weren’t the same length, but the difference was less than two centimeters, enough to walk without needing a shoe lift.
My mom married Gus for me, and she’s still paying the price. We both are.
Sometimes, I’m not sure it’s worth it. It’s like the story of the mermaid who gave up her voice so she could grow legs, not the Disney version but the original by Hans Christian Andersen. The price she paid for walking was a broken heart and a tragic ending. But things are what they are now, and I refuse to succumb to either outcome. No broken heart or tragic ending for me. Freedom isn’t in sight, not yet, but I’m determined to get us out of here.
It’s after eleven when I’m done with my duties. Most of the employees have left except for a few guys who are burning the midnight oil. They program software for my stepfather, and he’s a slave driver.
I take the elevator, push the trolley to the kitchen, and park it in front of the broom closet to stretch my sore back. I don’t mind the physical work. I do mind not having a choice in the matter. Like most people, I just want a job in which I can use the skills I’ve been trained for, but Gus believes drawing is a hobby, not a career. The only reason he allowed me to enroll for my degree was because the university offered me a bursary and he didn’t have to pay. We’re all pawns in his business. What we want is of no importance.
Kneeling on the floor, I pack away the cleaning products. I’m putting away the bucket when the door clicks open and a sliver of darkness from the hallway creeps into the room. I look over my shoulder and freeze. Leon Hart stands in the door, wearing dark jeans that hug his powerful legs and a leather jacket that stretches over his broad chest. A pendant carved from wood hangs on a leather string around his neck. It matches the braided leather bracelet on his wrist. His ring finger on his right hand sports a gold signature ring. His left hand is bare.
He leans in the frame with one arm above his head, studying me quietly yet intensely. Those are the two words that describe him best. Quiet. Intense. I’ve tried hard to remain invisible, particularly here. In my circles, it’s dangerous to be noticed, especially by men like Leon Hart. He’s different than the other men who work for my stepfather. He’s not a brain or a muscle. He’s both. And more. There’s a darkness to him that only dangerous men acquire. I should know. I grew up with dangerous men.
He pushes off the doorframe. His movements are unhurried and precise. Premeditated. I stare, hypnotized like a rabbit by a snake. When he steps inside and closes the door with a soft but firm click, my heart starts pounding in my chest. Being at a disadvantage in my kneeling position on the floor, I grab hold of the shelf to pull myself up.
Before I’ve straightened, he’s behind me, gripping my arms to assist me. I spin around, looking up at his face as he takes one elbow and places a palm on my waist to test my balance. He holds on too long, not setting me free. The pounding of my heart turns into a wild gallop. I know enough by now to know men like him take what they want. I know enough to know women like me can’t win. Our only chance is fighting smart.
