The Opposite of Falling Apart [Formerly Three and a Half Good Legs]

3 (free sample)

J O N A S

Jonas put the car in park as soon as it had stopped, bumper to bumper with the car in front of him. He didn't try to back up from the car; the thought didn't even cross his mind (or maybe it did, but got lost in the rapid fire of his brain's synapses).

With the car stopped, it was easier to extricate his foot. He glared at it in disgust. He imagined shoving it back into the corner of the closet. Or better yet, under his bed, where it could gather dust, completely out of sight. Prosthetic piece of crap, he thought, his hand massaging the point where the remaining part of his left leg met plastic. Jonas ignored the pins and needles sensation in his leg and turned his gaze back to the car in front of him.

Whoever he'd hit wasn't getting out. Jonas could tell it was a she, but nothing else about her. Would she be angry? Most likely. I'd be angry if someone hit me, he thought. Well, I was angry when someone hit me. He wondered whether or not he should tell the truth about what caused the accident. He decided he would just say he hadn't been paying attention. What was he supposed to say? Um, sorry...I have a fake foot and mental issues with semi trucks, and I rear-ended you because I was trying to decide if I was having a panic attack or dying. Better Jonas look like an incompetent driver than tell her the truth and watch her expression morph into that look of pity that people inevitably got whenever they learned that he was an eighteen year old with only half a left leg.

He saw the other driver turn her hazards on, and decided that he should probably do the same.

After doing this, he steeled himself to the inevitable conversation that would have to occur between him and the girl. So he slid over to the passenger side (having enough sense left to know that it would be inconceivably stupid to open a door into oncoming traffic, no matter how slow it was going) and opened the door. Jonas felt like every other driver on the road was watching him. He tried not to think about it. Who cares? He told himself. Not me. If anything, I'm used to being stared at by now. He almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the lie. Carefully placing both feet on the ground, he got out. With his pants covering his prosthetic leg, the view looking down was almost normal; there was no way to tell that one of his feet was plastic, except for the way it felt. Like it's dead. He wished that he was wearing almost anything other than plaid pajama pants and a too-big sweatshirt.

Jonas was careful to match his walking as closely to 'normal' as possible, ignoring the discomfort and pain that shot through the missing part of his leg with each step. Phantom pain can be triggered by emotional situations, Dr. Andy, his counselor, had said, back when he first went to see her. You seem to be having a lot of trouble with it. I know it's not what you want, but maybe if you mentally accepted the missing part of your leg, you might feel a little less of it. Some patients have said it helps...Easier said than done. Be normal, be normal, he told himself, as he made his way around the Bus. Jonas told himself to watch where he was putting his feet, due to lack of sensation in his prosthesis, so that he didn't step too hard, or trip forward. It was like he was stumbling around with impaired depth perception or something. He was used to the crutches, but not so used to the feeling of having a left leg, albeit a left leg that he couldn't feel below the knee.

When she saw that Jonas was getting out of the car, the girl rolled down her passenger window.

"Um...hi," Jonas said, rather lamely in his opinion. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, before gesturing towards the back of her car. "Look, I'm really...I'm really sorry," he choked out, fixing a half smile on his face like a piece of armor, and hoping he didn't look as unhinged as he had in the mirror that morning. "I just...I looked down for a second and then I looked up and the light was red..." Half truth. He had been looking at the semi truck. Don't think about it, he mentally ordered himself, trying to ignore the way his heart sped up at the memory.