It wasn’t shocking anymore for Kamilla to see her detached arm dragging itself across her floor in a hurry first thing in the morning, except for the days it actually managed to get out. Her landlord doesn’t see the need for a lock on her bedroom door, so every few weeks her limb is able to lurch itself up, using the door for support, grab the handle and pull the door open, though usually not before waking Kamilla up with the racket. This Tuesday was one of those days, where she woke to see her arm scratching it’s nails against the wooden floor past the carpet of her bedroom, desperately trying to find something to grab for momentum. This is where barely awake Kamilla groans and curses on her rise out of the sheets, dragging her feet over to her arm and snatching it from the floor. The duct tape she keeps by the bed is all she has to reattach it, but after about twenty minutes the flesh reconnects to her shoulder as if nothing had happened. Until then, all she can do is lie back in bed, tape wrapped around her bicep and pressing her weight onto the still writhing limb fighting to get away with pitiful slaps. After six months, she’ll say it doesn’t bother her anymore, the weekly routine that followed the initial horror of seeing her body part moving as it’s own being. She does, though, still struggle with the following days of casual conversation knowing that what she had just experienced in the morning was so unbelievable, most people wouldn’t even entertain her with a laugh if she told them, assuming it was some attempt of an absurd joke or just lying for attention. Who can you tell about your arm falling off every week without them thinking you’re crazy? No-one that Kamilla knows, she’s pretty sure.
Pins-and-needles tell her it’s nearly done – she's made the mistake of letting it out early a few times before – then she waits until she can move her fingers enough to form a fist. Once she has her grasp back, the tape comes off, into the bin, and she gets up to find her uniform.
Carson’s opens at nine in the morning, but Kamilla’s in there by 8:30, turning on ovens, prepping ingredient trays, and stocking drink machines. Anyone else could open, she could train a pigeon to do her job at this point, and she’s made a point to the manager that mornings just don’t work for her. For personal reasons.
But you’re just the most reliable, Jenna had replied, half focused on making her usual break sandwich: ham, mozzarella, lettuce, mayo. You see, no-one else is as experienced opening as you are, Kami. Kamilla doesn’t go by Kami. I just... I don’t know who else we’d put on if you can’t do mornings. It’s a bit late now to throw this at us.
By this point, she gathered she had no choice in the matter, but Jenna hadn’t even reached for the lettuce.
See, we all get tired. We all don’t want to get up in the morning because we have a little sniffle or the covers are too warm. But we still do. We still have to, even if we’re a little sick. If I woke up and I had a cold or, hell, if my legs fell off, I’d still pull myself in. Alright?
She didn’t even know how ironic that comment she’d just made was. And she never would. Because Kamilla would always be there in the morning, come rain or come shine, even if her arm had fallen off. Because no-one gave her the option not to.
