It was Murphy's Law, really. If something could go wrong, it would.
He remembered the day like he was there. It was another of his dreams, the ones that never left him. The end of the school year, hot summer sun beating down on him. His school's track uniform was red shorts and a white shirt, the Gazelle's logo pasted on the front.
He was standing on a thin line on their oval track. It was dirt, and ran around the playground. A quarter mile long. He was shifting impatiently, waiting as the other boys fell in reluctantly. No one wanted to race with him. It was, with him in the race, a question not of who would win, but of who would come in second. He was lucky to get this race.
Once the other seven boys had lined up, they all sunk to one knee, ready to run. "And..." A final boy, who was standing to the side, said, "Go!" They took off. As usual, he flew in front of the others. The breeze cooled him, sending his hair whipping into his face, the ground flying under his feet.
Then, it happened. A sickening crack, his leg bending where it should never bend. He fell forwards, just catching himself from breaking his nose on the ground. After a second or two of shock, the pain set in. So much pain.
He screamed and everything went black.
Arlo had always been under the impression, after it happened, that things just didn't want to turn out well for him. When he was happy, something bad had to happen. When everything was going well, when he wasn't sick or injured or feeling down, that had to change and soon. He came to expect it, to fear being happy because of what was going to happen afterwards. What would change his happiness. It was better to just hold himself away from it all than to experience the little ups and the huge downs. He'd get a good grade, or meet a girl he liked. But then something else would happen. He would make a giant mistake, ruin his whole grade. He would get careless, say something that the girl would take offense to, rumors would spread.
Once they realized something was wrong, Arlo was told he was rushed to the hospital. He vaguely remembered being carried, frantic voices, a rocking vehicle. Sirens. Upon being examined, the doctors found something worse than a broken bone in his leg. Cancer. All through his leg, originating from just above his knee and climbing down to his foot and up near his pelvis. Bone cancer. Ewing's Sarcoma, to be exact. It was a wonder, they said. Amazing that he hadn't broken a bone sooner, that his cancer hadn't metastasized beyond his left leg.
Chemo came first. It killed some of the cancer. But more was left, too much to get rid of. Radiation did little. The only option was surgery - but there was too much for surgery to get rid of, too. Unless, they said. Unless.
Unless they removed the whole thing. His leg. Gone. His parents said yes instantly. All they wanted was their son alive. Arlo had questions. Would he still be able to play sports? Maybe, they said. Maybe. But if he didn't get it amputated? No. He wouldn't last long. A year at the most, and no sports during that time.
Even if he had said no, it would have still happened. His parents wouldn't let him die, would they? Arlo didn't want to die. He could hardly grasp the concept, at his age, but he knew he didn't want to die.
So he went to sleep for seven hours. When he awoke, he wasn't whole. One sixth of him was gone forever. But so was the cancer. He was on chemo for seven more months, and then declared cancer free. He'd need frequent check ups, sure, but he was alive.
And he could still run. He could still do what he loved. If anything, he was better. He was still the fastest. Arlo was still free. And, at his age, he was cool. He was the Terminator, he was RoboCop, he was Iron Man, he was the Cyborg. He was somebody.
But then, a check up changed his life. They found more cancer. In his other leg. His knee. Osteosarcoma. they suspected. But they couldn't know what it was, or how bad it was, until he was in the hospital. It wasn't terminal, it probably wouldn't kill him. That was his reassurance. That he might live. It didn't help his dreams, the nightmares every night.
What was worse was the knowledge. He knew that he wouldn't make it to his sixties, that the chemo that saved him now would kill him later. It wasn't worth it. He was a waste of space, a waste of air. He was a nobody.
And there he was. Staring down hatefully at the piece of plastic and metal that was his leg. He hated this one. It looked like a real leg, crafted to match his other one almost exactly. Realistic. It only made it worse when he had to take it off, see that it wasn't all a dream, some sick fantasy or fever dream.
It was all real. Too real.
