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This doctor was pissing me off.
Where was Cem’s personal physician? The one who’d hacked off my leg? I hadn’t seen him in a while. Perhaps Cem had fired him for taking my leg and every shred of my self-worth.
I was worthless to him now. How could you train up a son when he would rather be dead?
“Get up,” the doctor urged, placing the despised walking frame in front of me. “We need to start your rehab.”
I stood but only because he hauled me upright. I swayed, and my teeth crunched together at the godawful pressure from the prosthetic wedging far too tightly against my stump. No amount of gel pads and cushioning could soothe the grinding ache.
The leather straps on my quad dug into my flesh, and the contraption around my knee bit like tiny beasts.
“That’s it. Try putting your full weight into the limb. Trust it. It can hold you, I promise.”
Clenching my jaw even tighter, I did the opposite. I let my right leg take my full weight, my nostrils flaring at the claustrophobia clawing to rip the offending fake leg off and hurl it through the window.
Get it off.
Get it the fuck off!
Sweat ran down my back, and I was moments away from snapping when Cem strode through my bedroom door, nodding at the four guards stationed there. “Aslan!” He clapped his hands as if this was a happy day and I was the prodigal son. “You look better.” His eyes went to the wooden limb socketed at the bottom of my stump. “Ah, you’re up and walking. Even better news!”
Phantom pain shot through my confused nervous system, and I swore I had a cramp in the arch of my missing foot. My big toe itched. My calf muscle twitched.
All things that couldn’t possibly exist because that part of my body was now most likely fed to Cem’s Rottweilers that patrolled outside my barred and locked window.
I shuddered as black loathing rolled through me.
If I could, I’d slaughter my father and then myself.
Anything to be free from this powerlessness.
“Leave us,” Cem barked.
Immediately, the doctor bowed, squeezed my arm, then left.
Cem stopped before me, snapping his fingers and smiling as a young woman with dark-brown hair pinned in a bun on the top of her head came scurrying into the room.
She kept her eyes far from mine, her bare arms straining to carry a heavy white box. The dress she wore could better be described as a potato sack, skimming her ankles with faded cream fabric.
“Put it on the bed,” Cem commanded. His Turkish order seemed both threatening and fatherly as the girl did as he asked, then darted back out the door.
I had no idea who she was and didn’t care. She was probably a slave Cem kept for himself.
Sitting down beside me, Cem waited until I gave up the pretence of wanting to learn how to walk on a piece of wood and patted my shoulder. He never looked away as I sat heavily, kicked away the walking frame, then fumbled with the buckles.
The minute they were undone, I yanked off the fake leg, threw it to the ground, then gingerly unwrapped the thick padding.
No matter how many times I saw myself naked in the mirror. No matter how many nights I sat in the dark and studied my huge scar, it never got easier. As far as amputations went, I supposed it’d been done well. I’d had no infection or adverse reactions. My body had healed enough that I was no longer feverish and could keep food down.
But each time I ran my fingers over what was left of my leg, I shuddered with abhorrent disgust. It repulsed me. I felt half-human. It made me sick to my bones because it signified how far I’d fallen and how destroyed I was because I could never climb back up.
Cem cleared his throat, his eyes on my stump. “I don’t know how many times I can apologise, but I know it will never be enough. This was not how I wanted our reunion to go.”
I ignored him and shoved my trackpants over my stump. With a practiced move, I tied the empty part of the leg into a knot so it didn’t dangle, then wedged my face into my hands and dug my elbows into my knees.
I cursed that I both hated his visits and enjoyed them.
When Cem was here, my hate had something to latch onto.
