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The first two steps were always the worst.
My scarred legs didn’t want to cooperate.
It’d been six months since I’d been found in that hellhole.
Six months of pain.
Pain that, still to this day, was just as debilitating as the first day.
Your scarring is intense. Best guess, you survived some kind of explosion.
The doctor’s first words to me when I woke up explaining what had happened were burned in my
memory.
Your scarring is intense.
No fuckin’ joke.
Though my face was badly scarred, it, at least, was one of the only parts of my body that didn’t
hurt.
My shoulders, however? Those fucking hurt.
There was a clump of scarring from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, and at times, it hurt to even
squeeze my hand, let alone move my arm.
Then there was my left leg.
You’re lucky that you didn’t lose that. It could’ve been a lot worse.
Yep, lucky.
I was lucky to have a fuckin’ leg that hurt so bad to walk at times that I nearly cried with my first two steps.
But, the scarring was just that, scarring.
It was proof that I did survive.
Malachi Stokes was a survivor. Even if the name Malachi Stokes meant nothing to me.
“One last piece of advice,” the doctor said as he saw me walking past.
I looked at him.
“Don’t stop moving,” he said. “The more you move, the freer and less stiff the scarring will be.”
I nodded once, feeling the scars pull tight on my face right around my eyes.
You’re lucky you didn’t lose your eyes.
Funny. But I didn’t feel the least bit fucking lucky.
***
Gabe stood next to me as we both stared at the contents of what I’d left behind.
