Henry Fanning had spent a restless first night in his new home, tossing and turning within cold sheets as his mind struggled to compartmentalise the changes in locale and community he’d recently faced.
Following his initial online introduction, Henry had wondered ceaselessly about his first impression despite a vicious insistence to himself that it didn’t matter. That he needed to stop trying to please people. That he needed to shit himself away from people. But as always, regret and melancholy struck him at inopportune times.
So he decided to get some donuts. He had a strict exercise routine and kept his diet healthy, an attempt to improve his own physique. But he allowed himself lapses at times. And right now, he was lapsing.
Henry had long trained his mind to not hear the clack of the walking stick, to feel the plastic grip in his palm as a simple extension of himself. It was effortless. Natural. And he hated that he had to.
The plastic surgery he’d had (it seemed so long ago now) had improved his looks, but when cornered in an elevator with a beautiful woman, he was back to being a freak. He recognised the woman as Iris. “Hello,” he greeted in his scratchy voice, his smile not quite reaching his large dark eyes.