My leg has become my identity. Hobbling down the street, passersby here the distinct clatter of my prosthetic, and look down.
“Thank you for your service,” one of them says on occasion without looking up, like slaves terrified of addressing their master.
I no longer spare them. “I slipped under a commuter train, getting to work,” I reply. Nobody ever apologizes.
I may as well be invisible, save for my leg. If I could power it remotely, I’d send it on its own, and shatter the illusion of normalcy.
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