It’s a
helpless feeling. To know that you have a problem that no one can help with.
It’s even worse when everyone you see walks about without a care, not even
giving your pain a passing glance. I’ve prided myself on the ability to protect
myself from harm and to protect others when the time came. The argument could
be made that I can do a lot with just one arm. Well I’m sorry to look at the
glass half empty, but there’s a lot I can’t do with one arm. Two-handed weapons
will be out of the question, I’ll have one less arm to fight with in fist
fights, building any new equipment will take 10 times as long if it’s even possible,
and I’m at a great disadvantage to enemies, soulless or human. You could even
argue that Julie has the same problem; it’s not true. Julie can move her arm;
she just doesn’t have a hand with it. She could attach a hook to it, or use it
to cook a shotgun or hold something down. She knows she doesn’t have a hand
anymore because it’s not there, but my arm will hang in front of me as a
constant reminder of its uselessness, my uselessness. Maybe I’m just being a
whiner about this. People lose their lives everyday, but I’ve lost as well.
I’ve lost a home, a family, friends, a good base, the chance to reunite a
father and daughter. I don’t want to lose my arm too.
No one
bothered to wake me up (I guess Mike told them not to, maybe). Nothing had
changed. The only reason I knew I had a left arm was because I saw it, not
because I felt it. There wasn’t any pain at the moment and I hoped to keep it
that way. It seemed like it only occurs when I exert myself (if that’s true,
then I’m near worthless now).
Coming out
of my tent, I saw that everyone was busy packing the cars, organizing
everything to make sure it along with everyone can fit in the cars again. There
was casual conversation between those nearby each other. The words that happen
to float in my direction crashed against my eyes and ignored my ears. My senses
weren’t right today. I could see Julie, the odd one out of the bunch, searching
frantically, going from person to person, asking the same question until she
reached me, “Where’s Mike?”
“How am I supposed
to know?”
Her
expression changed so quickly from concerned to angry to amused.
“Oh, that’s
right. You slept in today. I guess I’d need extra sleep too if I went nuts like
you did yesterday,” she said with a snarky, taunting attitude.
“That’s none
of your concern. Now leave me alone.”
“You have
to help me find Mike!”
“I don’t
have to do anything. And Mike’s probably around here.”
“I looked
everywhere.”
“Then maybe
he went off to get supplies.”
“With who?”
“Julie,
leave me alone! What do you want me to do?”
“Go find
him!”
“Why don’t
you go find him?”
“I can’t go
by myself.”
“Well, I
can’t go. Period!”
She gave me
a displeased look and asked a nearby kid to go with her to find Mike. Kid said
that he wasn’t going without a gun or without someone else other than a
one-handed girl.
“Julie. He
could’ve gone in any direction. You’re probably not going to find him with just
two people searching.”
“Then you
have to come with us!”
Now I was
starting to get concerned. Mike didn’t tell anyone where he was going or why.
Had it been one of the kids that did this, we wouldn’t have noticed and left
them behind. I didn’t go through all the trouble of saving Mike to have him get
killed. I started asking others to help, only for them to make stupid excuses
until Julie and I were both yelling at people to help. And like in a movie,
that’s when Mike showed up; at the height of the drama.
"Going
all alone again?!" I shouted.
He had the
gall to talk to me with much of the same tone as Julie did. I knew very well I
wouldn’t be in the mood for laughing or living for that matter especially not
after him going off on his own. How I wished at that moment I had a shocker
collar to wrap around his neck. That was, until I saw the soulless dragging the
tanks in our direction. It was one of the most brilliant, awesome, and funniest
things I’d seen (though at the time, all I could muster was a laugh). It always
gave me a few ideas of my own. Mike killed the soulless, told the others to
load the cars while Julie yelled at him, complaining and asking why he always
went out alone. It wasn’t news to me. I just said, “That’s Mike for you.”
Mike talked
to me before we left about what happened yesterday. I’m not going to write it
down again. It was basically the same thing I said yesterday, but with a calmer
tone (a non-panicking tone). He said there was a doctor I could see back at
base. It made me wonder for a moment, just for a moment, that maybe the doctor
could help. Then the doubts seeped in like a stain on a towel. Mike even joked
I’d be the farmer I always wanted. Not with one arm. I’d be of better use as
fertilizer for that job.
Not long
after, we all got into the cars and off we went. The drive was nothing to tell,
considering all I did was try and sleep through it while one of the younger
kids would turn around when he got bored and poke me. He may have poked me a
thousand times in my left arm. I would’ve never known. Sometimes, I caught
glimpses out the window of the places we passed: deserted architecture,
abandoned cars, hideous soulless, nature encroaching on what was once ours, and
the long road ahead. For split moments, I swear I could beautiful fields,
beautiful things that I can’t recall. Perhaps I was just dreaming. It’s a lot
more likely.
I planned
on writing this journal entry on the way back to base, but I never got the
chance: with the kid poking me, the tired feeling (depression is more
accurate), and there being no place to write, I just decided to wait until we
got back. It was a long wait; the longest I’ve ever stayed in one spot in all
my life. Day and night passed my conscious eyes without my even noticing it.
There was no one in my car to talk with that I knew. Ann was going to sit by
me, but the car got filled up before she could get a seat. I really needed
someone to talk to, or talk at (someone who wasn’t poking me. I told the kid if
he poked me again, I’d break his finger. He poked me again. I didn’t break his
finger).
I wasn’t
expecting a celebration upon our arrival back at base. They took their time
opening up the gates, but what a welcoming; people cheering us like we were
just elected President or had won a gold medal. I didn’t stick around. When the
doctors started checking out the kids, I went with them and waited in the
waiting area until all the more “serious” injuries were handled (apparently a
guy that can’t feel his arm isn’t an emergency). Even Victor got to go in
before me to get his old wounds checked out, to make sure they were healing all
right. This scenario brought back old memories, yet at the same time, fond
memories of when I was a kid. You waited out in a room with a bunch of chairs
and magazines until someone called to you like you were a dog. There would be
play areas for kids to sit in, small corners away from the adults where they
could play with toys, color, or just run around. It was awkward going to a
strange place and waiting for something to happen. The play area made the time
memorable because I associate the awkwardness with the fun and the fun with
awkwardness. As I got older, there were no play areas for older kids. There was
nothing to do, but just become boring like everyone else sitting in the room,
waiting for someone to call them to action. This waiting room is the same; no
toys, no décor, not even any magazines to read. Still, the kids smiled every
once and a while like I did once. One after another each one left. The silence
grew to an uncomfortable level. The waiting room had changed; it’s gotten
worse. Now you can’t even be an adult; you have to be dead to wait in such a
place. Waiting is patience, but only waiting, just sitting somewhere and doing
nothing, is a waste because you don’t get that time back, no matter how much
you want it. No matter how precious it was to you. No matter how much you try
and move on from it.
In the mist
of all the fluctuating nostalgia, the doctor came out and invited me back. He
wasn’t young and he wasn’t very old; he was old enough to call me “son” though.
I was about to tell him the problem when he plainly said, “So, you can’t feel
your left arm at all.”
“How’d you
know?” I said with confusion.
“The older
guy who walked in here told me. What was his name?.... ummmmm…. Victor, I
think.”
Victor must
of overheard Mike and I talking. I sat on the bench and the doctor took a look
at my arm.
“It looks
completely healthy, except for that large incision. What happened?”
“I crashed
through a window and one of the glass shards got me.”
The doctor
smiled brightly.
“Well, aren’t
you durable? I’d probably slice my throat open doing that,” he said with a tone
of amazement and jest, “who did the sewing?”
“A woman we
met on our travels. Why do you ask?”
He looked
at it a little longer. “Just curious. This is one of the best stitching jobs
I’ve ever seen. The stitches all appear to be the same exact length and width
apart. It’s perfect. Is she a professional?”
“I don’t
know. She says she can’t remember her past.”
He laughed,
“Yah. I’ve heard that one before. Well, anyways. I’ve never heard of a case
where a gash on the arm would make it useless. Were you injured anywhere else?”
“Only my
leg. I got shot. Also, I kept getting these intense periods of pain coming from
my arm.”
“But you
told me you couldn’t feel it.”
“I could
feel it just fine when the pain kicks in.”
He took my
vitals and looked at everything from my heart to my scrotum without finding
anything that could indicate a deeper problem. “As much as I hate to do this,
I’m going to cut open your stitches and take look to see if everything’s
alright.”
Within a
minute, my left arm felt like it was coming apart. The doctor kept making
shocked sounds as he examined the inside tissue. He grabbed a pair of tweezers,
put them into my arm, and came back with some kind of weird game thing. There
was more than one in there.
“What in the
world is that?”
“Looks like
a plant or herb of some kind. Whatever it is, it doesn’t belong in your arm.”
He took out
the rest of the green things and cleaned the inside of my arm with a sterilizer
and then finished with water before stitching it back up. I still couldn’t feel
a thing in my arm. He fixed up the wound on my leg as well before I went to
leave.
“Other than
what I just pulled out of it, there’s nothing wrong with your arm so I don’t
have an answer for you other than to wait for a few mouths. Perhaps the muscle
will heal and you’ll be able to use it again.”
Before I
left, I asked, “how would that stuff had gotten into my arm?”
He looked
at me with one of the most serious looks I’ve seen him with since we met and he
says, “I have no idea.” I thanked him and left. Although it doesn't really matter since it didn't help, why were those things in my arm? Maybe there was a fern or something growing in the window I smashed through. Maybe they grew in my arm (scary). Maybe Ann thought they were plants that were used as a soothing agent and added them in. Like I said though, it doesn't matter. Mike, Julie, Victor, Matt, Jess
and Ann were scattered over the base doing what they wanted. With as much as I wanted
to come back here, I just decided to go to bed, that is, after writing this
entry. To tell the truth, I don’t think I can wait months. By then, I may have
cut off my arm in disgust.
- Jack’s Diary
Posts
