Every third Wednesday she sat in the window. It was the highlight of her week, not only because she was a born people-watcher, but also because it was the perfect display platform for people to see her in all of what she had come to think of as her glory.
These days there was no denying that Sheely was a complicated soul, although it hadn't always been that way. In fact, most of her adult life she had been a shy little thing, passing the days mostly invisibly. She worked in a tiny cubicle, wearing dank, grey pant suits and modest hair-dos. She spoke in a rediculously mousey tone and relieved her most gregarious co-workers of tedious tasks with no hope of reward.
Yes, Sheely was the icon of invisibles. That is, until the accident.
It appeared to be morning like any other. Wide awake at the sound of her alarm, she was down for meditation by 5:15. Breakfast was the usual boiled egg and yoghurt, a disgusting sip of cod liver oil and a handful of vitamins. She tried to feel beautiful as she towled her trim, fit body in the bathroom mist, clearing the mirror with the palm of her manicured hand.
As usual, she never wore much make-up, although she had been told by not-so kind half-blind dates that she wasn't the type of woman who could get away with it. She was plain, simple and ordinary. Most thought if was bred in her, if they thought about it at all, but Sheelie knew she had perfected her presentation specifically to avoid attention. On this morning, just like every other morning, she watched the face in her mirror return a bitter stare. Safe, quiet, invisible.
Her briefcase was in its place, next to the front door, just as were her sensible shoes, which she slipped on carefully, making sure to avoid pressing her enormous corns to roughly against the leather. There was no music, no television hum, only the sound of the draft gaurd scraping against the carpet as she closed the door behind her.
Down in the street, tired third-shifters were making their way home, the sun was coming up, the sanitation specialists were jumping on and off their mobile stations. Paper men were dropping their fare off the back of 15 year-old pick-ups.
She pushed the button for the light, waiting patiently to cross.
But of course, on this particular morning, nothing was usual. Although she never heard the coming truck, or felt pain as her left leg was caught in the front axle and twisted from her body, she remained aware enough to hear the low rumble of the gawkers and would-be heroes surrounding her. She heard the constant questioning of the EMS team who declared her athletic leg a certain loss, lifted her onto a gurney and rushed her to the hospital.
To say that she was in shock would be a major understatement. On the other hand, to the surprise of the nursing staff, she found herself unable to generate the feelings she understood should have naturally presented when faced with such a traumatic loss.
Excruciating pain soon awakened her at odd hours, phantom pain torturing her, causing her to sweat and wretch and cry out for relief. She found herself using both hands to expend her ration of morphine as the opiate tide took her in and out of the black dreams of her existence.
Nevertheless, something, for once in a long life of moments, seemed terribly right.
Sitting up wasn't easy. She'd never seen the bandages changed, but they wanted to wean her. They wanted to bring her partial form back to life, exposing her suddenly to the facts of their world, where they felt she would be forced to cast out denial.
She watched, in a strange physical discomfort as the bandages were removed, little bits of whitish, runny blood crusted on the gauze, sticking underneath and on the side. The male nurse appologized absently, placing an absorbent cloth beneath the stump, lifting it as gently as he could.
Above the knee. Spoiled, wrinkled, black and blue. Stump, about one foot of it, mine. Above the knee. Yes. Something very right.
"We'll leave it out for a while to let it breathe." For you to see, is what he really meant to say. The therapist was there; a life coach. He watched her intently, trying to figure out exactly what it was he should attack. Exactly why this woman had not cried, had not mourned her loss.
He put his hand on her remaining leg, thinking sympathetic human touch would move her. It didn't. But it did move the sheet. The one part of her that she had always despised, which she had always known to be an embarrassment, her remaining foot appeared. It was then that she decided.
She wasn't surprised when the efforts to fit her with prosthetics failed. Of course the bucket fit, but not so well. The scars from the accident were too painful to continuously apply pressure. They couldn't stand the weight. Still, her insurance paid for it, so she took it home with her in the cab and stuffed it in the hall closet.
Her neighbors didn't notice her return, barely noticed she'd been gone, but when she reappeared a few days later, she quickly became the talk of the complex.
Make-up was the first to change as she carefully studied the magazines to try and optimize her features. She had a few weeks of leave left and she was determined not to become the reluctant focus. She had never been ugly, only severely understated. She was stunned to discover that with a little work she came off almost brilliantly acceptible.
Next, she sat naked before her mirror, only gazing at her pretty little form. Her naked form, of which she had always been proud, the jewel of her cabinet, slender and firm was altered in a most horrid way. She took the time to understand it. She studied it, in much the same way she had studied the science of society, so that she could hide herself.
She played games with her wardrobe. First mixing items to discover new, fresher combinations; a collar up here, a button lose there. Then, she attacked the materials with scissors until she was satisfied.
All packed in a backpack, she tossed on her only pair of jeans and a tank, grabbed her canadian crutches, slipped into a crackling new pair of summer sandals she'd never been brave enough to wear and made her way to the nearest cleaners for alterations.
And... now... These Wednesdays, having become such a staple in her life, also represent the outline of all her days. Dates, parties, dirty looks and all. She isn't afraid of anything. She is who she is. Proud, beautifully scarred, and sporting the dangedest set of toes you ever did see.
Request Submission:
"Here is a request for something rather rare. Like the majority of devotees I prefer sak amputees. Also like a lot of devotees I have a foot fetish. Both of my interests have an extreme side. Here goes.
I would love to read a story about an attractive sak amp who has about a mid thigh stump that is VERY, VERY badly scarred. Nonetheless, she loves to show it off in shorts, short skirts and especially "cuffed jeans". She likes to shock people wiht her scarred stump.
Her single foot is also a shocking attention getter. She has a huge bunion with a dramaticaly angled big toe and severely bent, twisted hammertoes with several prominant corns on them. In spite of this she always has a perfect pedicure and loves to show her deformed toes off in a sexy ultra high heeled sandal.
Pretty extreme huh? Think you can do something with that? I'd love it if you could as that is a combination never seen in any amputee fiction I've ever read.
Thanks for your consideration.
REgards,
---"
Dear Requestor:
I hope this works for you, or is at least a beginning. It likely is rife with mistakes and omissions, which, hopefully, you will not take the time to count.
As you can see, I tend to search for reasoning behind behavior. I am afraid in this particular story, detailed descriptions of movement and the asthetic have escaped me.
I hope more than anything that you do not find yourself sorely disappointed, as my only motive in writing was to improve your experience by creating a world molded by your most gracious suggestion.
Yours,
Mya
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