Under My Body

chapter twenty-six

                      The entire room fell silent.

I froze. My breath hitched in my throat as I stared at him, eyes wide and my tears running down my cheeks. I felt to struggle to even catch my breath.

Finally, after a long, painful moment, Asher broke the silence, his anger faltering, cracking under the weight of something deeper. "Do you think I like being like this?" His voice shook, rough and raw, like he was dragging the words out against his will. "Do you think I wake up every day happy to be... this? I hate who I am. I hate what I am. I hate living like this, Malar."

I stared at him, stunned. My throat felt tight, like the words I wanted to say were trapped there. Asher never said things like this—not ever. He always bottled everything up, locking it behind that stoic, infuriatingly closed-off demeanor. And now, he was unraveling right in front of me, the threads of his carefully constructed walls snapping one by one.

He groaned as he pushed himself upright and swung his legs off the bed, his movements slow, deliberate, clearly pained. He sat there, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the bandaged wound.

"You think it's easy?" he muttered, his voice bitter and low. His hands gripped the edge of the mattress like it was the only thing holding him together. "You think I enjoy waking up every morning and strapping that thing on, just to pretend I'm normal for a few fucking hours? Just to walk down the street and not fall a part?"

A sharp, bitter laugh escaped his lips, cutting through the air like a knife. "You think I don't notice the looks? The pity? The fake-ass smiles people give me when they see me limping around like I'm some broken toy? Every single day, Malar. I see it. And I swear to God, it makes me want to punch every single one of them in the fucking face."

His words were sharp, slicing through me. I didn't know what to say. Should I even say anything? 

Suddenly, he stood up, balancing on his good leg. He wavered for a moment before hopping to the prosthetic leg leaning against the wall by the bedside table. And then, with a burst of raw, uncontrolled rage, he grabbed it and hurled it across the room.

It hit the wall with a sickening thud, the sound reverberating through the room as it clattered to the floor. I flinched, the force of his anger catching me off guard.

"I hate that fucking thing!" he spat, his voice trembling as his fists clenched at his sides. His breathing was ragged, uneven. "I hate it. I hate every single part of it. I hate that I need it to fucking live. I hate that without it, I'm nothing."

His laugh this time was harsher, more jagged, filled with so much bitterness it hurt to hear it. He turned to face me, his dark eyes blazing with an intensity that made my breath hitch. "You know what I hate even more?" he demanded, his voice raw, his words cutting through the air like a blade.

I stared at him, wide-eyed, my heart pounding in my chest.

"I hate that I'm a coward," he continued, his voice breaking. "I hate that I push my friends away because I'm so fucking scared they'll see me like this. I hate that I spoke to you like that. That I made you cry."