Alex Manes (notamanesman) wrote in valarlogs, @ 2019-10-29 17:40:00 |
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Alex wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to proceed. After all, everything had changed. In his dreams, he’d moved past losing his leg and instead was now in a weird place where he was post-rehab and being assigned to a job behind a desk in Roswell to work out the rest of his time in the Air Force. In the dreams, he had every intention of quitting, not re-enlisting and trying to make the best of life as a civilian and though it matched with his plans here, he couldn’t help but feel that now both were somewhat influenced by the disaster of his final tour. If he’d not been injured, would he have stayed? In the dreams, possibly. After all, he had a promising career and nothing that was holding him back. His connection to Michael - in the dreams - seemed as strong as ever and a part of him wanted to reach out but then he changed his mind. He’d broken things off with Michael, and Michael had been clear that they were going to keep it that way, distant. Separate. If Alex was honest, perhaps that was for the best.
He’d come home from a session with the Dream Clinic’s physiotherapy department - who had also taken over his care from the VA clinic on account that he wasn’t really able to explain how he had a fully healed amputation within the space of three weeks - to find builders in Kyle’s main house, and when confronted, Kyle had just shrugged and said he wanted the house to be as comfortable for Alex as possible. Though Alex had become comfortable and had only thought about leaving whenever he felt that he was a burden, knowing Kyle was going through these changes to try and make the place more comfortable for him, easier to access for him, made him feel both touched and disturbed. It spoke volumes as to the kind of man Kyle was that he’d done this for Alex, that he’d been willing to put himself out like this both financially and physically. Kyle was a rare breed of person, a true friend and a true gentleman, a good guy in every way that he needed to be just because that was how he was. But it did also remind him that he was, now, a burden to those around him. Until he got mobile again, he’d have to be accounted for in every trip out, his time on his feet was severely limited now and if he wanted to go anywhere, he’d have to Uber it, or ask Kyle to drop him off; he certainly couldn’t walk, run or drive himself there.
His whole way of life had changed and with it came the despondency of knowing that he’d taken his injury for granted. He’d thought, in his hubris, that it was okay to complain about the pain of the pins that had held his lower right leg together, to complain about the unsightly scarring and the way everything ached - and would ache - when the weather turned. He’d like to go back to that, he thought, being able to complain about a sore ankle and do something about it, instead of the burning phantom pains that stole his breath away and couldn’t be relieved by anything because there was no muscle to dig into, no tendon to relieve the pressure on. His brain, not yet retired (if it ever would be), did not recognise that there was a foot missing, so he still tried to step up like normal and stumbled on the stairs. He misjudged the height of sidewalks and the softness of sand. He stumbled more often than he was upright, and trying to get around without it was painfully slow.
The therapist had told him it would get better, and that he needed to reach out to someone who understood what he was going through - i.e. the dreams - to talk through what was happening and to help him adjust and he knew he needed to but he was just... proud maybe wasn’t the word. Maybe it was. He just didn’t want to.
But, he thought, as he looked at himself with a wave of disgust and nausea at the lower half of his body, perhaps he could do with another perspective.
It couldn’t hurt, right?