Endurance - Jack Kilborn [59]
“Nice, Deb,” she said to herself. “Real mature.”
Annoyed with herself, she hobbled into the bathroom to check out the clawfoot tub. Earlier, all she wanted to do was take a nice, hot bubblebath. Deb loved bubblebaths. She loved being weightless while immersed in water, and getting the suds high enough to imagine that under them, her body was whole.
But looking at it now, she saw how steep and high the bathtub’s edges were. Unlike modern hotels, there was no hand bar or railing next to the tub. That meant getting in and out would involve flopping over the edge. The tile floor was probably cold, and there weren’t enough towels to cover it. Then, afterward, Deb would have to put her prosthetics back on to get into bed.
A whole lot of work for a bit of relaxation. Besides, she didn’t like that gigantic framed poster of Theodore Roosevelt that faced the toilet.
It seems to be looking right at me.
Deb decided against the bath. She’d get up early, deal with it then. Right now, she just wanted to sleep and try to forget this day ever happened. She took off her fanny pack, placed it on the sink, and pulled out her toothbrush and toothpaste. The water was gross, but she made do. Afterward, she picked up a hand towel and left the bathroom. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and undressed down to her underwear.
I really hate this part.
Deb hit the release valves on her prosthetics, breaking the suction. She eased them off and set the Cheetahs on the floor, next to the bed. Then she rolled down the gel sock, sheathing the vestige of her left calf. A day’s worth of accumulated sweat dripped onto the floor. Deb wiped the sheath with the towel and gave it a tentative sniff.
Not too funky. I can get another wear out of it.
She pulled the silicone end pad out of the bottom, dried it off, and repeated the process with the other side, setting the sheaths on the night stand. Then Deb finally looked at her legs.
The amputations were transtibial; below the knee. Her left leg was three inches longer than her right, and both came to tapered ends. Deb hated that they were uneven—it made her feel even more deformed. To make the complete package reach eleven on the hideous scale, each leg had raised, ugly scars, from her surgery, and from her cougar injuries. On top of all that, she needed to shave.
Yuck, Deb thought. I’m a monster.
She always thought that when she looked at her stumps.
Her skin below each knee was pruned and red. The gel sheet provided cushioning, but Deb sweat so much she got heat rash. The alternative was to wear stump socks, which would wick away sweat just like regular socks did. Unfortunately, the suction of the prosthetics weren’t as tight when she wore socks, and Deb didn’t want to risk having a leg fall off while in motion. Still, she’d eventually have to come up with some sort of compromise. Even the strongest antiperspirants didn’t do much to help.
She draped the towel over her legs, then began to dry her stumps, massaging the muscles.
For half a second she pictured someone else doing the massage. Mal.
The fantasy ended with Mal gagging and running away.
You’re… grotesque.
Yes. Yes I am. And it’s my own stupid fault.
Deb considered jumping into the self-pity pool and wallowing around, but she was presently too tired to hate herself. Instead she yawned, then flicked off the light switch next to the bed. The room went dark, and Deb buried her face in the Roosevelt pillowcase, letting her mind blank out.
Less than a minute later, she heard something creak.
Like someone is walking toward the bed.
Deb’s eyelids snapped open, and she fumbled for the light switch.
The room was empty.
She waited, riding out the adrenaline, her heart dancing a rhumba. But there were no more noises. No one around.
Okay. Old houses creak. No need to get paranoid about it. The door is locked. I’m alone. I need to go back to sleep.
She hit the switch, adjusted the pillow, and rested her head.
Creak, creak, creak.