Whumpmas in July day 9 Prompt : choice
Chasing Ghosts
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“The choice is yours.”
Those words should be encouraging. They should feel empowering, or some such touchy feely bull in the recruiting packets. What they do feel like is the only out he’s ever going to get that isn’t a one-way ticket to life on the streets. He signs on the line. Goes home to Tasha and tells her when he’s due to report. He knows she understands. He also knows she hates him for it. He hates himself for it. He tells his caseworker. Begs and succeeds in getting a few extra weeks in the group home. Too much paperwork to toss him on his tail. Instead the agency gets to write down that he’s off to the service, that he’s a success story, that he’s one of the lucky ones. He doesn’t know if he feels lucky, but he’s glad enough to have a plan that it’s worth the four years of his life he’s signed away to the highest bidder.
“You’re making the right choice, son.”
He’s never been anyone’s son. Not to the assorted men his womb donor shacked up with. Not to the grandparents who made no secret of their obligation to take in their own kid’s screw up. And certainly not to the officer who is congratulating him on his successful application to a program with a higher washout rate than most of the measures of success the civilian world so values – the Ivy League, law school, medical school, the competitive worlds of academia or even sports. Once again, whether it’s right or not doesn’t matter. And it’s not really a choice. He’s got a gift. That gift is going to keep him valuable to the only thing that’s ever valued him. He nods, agreeing with the man and sealing his fate as an operator. He reports to the middle of nowhere a week later and prays to every god he can think of that he might survive selection. That he will be chosen. The move to a base in the middle of rural America once he is tells him he’s finally worthy.
“We have several myoelectric choices for you.”
Those words don’t mitigate the truth that he’s picking out an arm. An arm that will stand in for the one he left in the sand. The one he lost when he lost men younger and older than his years. The one their medic tried to save, or at tried to convince him he was trying to save. It got really hazy really fast. James knows there was a lot of morphine in the mix back in the smoke and gore. His stomach clenches and he has to swallow hard. He’s stateside. He’s safe. It’s just an equipment evaluation. He can do this. And so he does. He picks out the mechanics of what will become a part of him. He leaves everything he’s had in his gut for what feels like a week in a bathroom stall when the decisions are finished.