That hospital smell always sort of bothered you. You don't like waiting around under harsh halogens, and you hate the constant bustle of people around you. You hear commotions in the hallway, you hear the steady drone of your television. Your leg itches and you move to scratch it, but it's not there -- and you can't imagine when you will grow used to that. The bottom half of your leg is gone. You're not whole.
You roared like a cornered animal when they told you it couldn't be saved. You thrashed and kicked and swung your fists, and you roared louder because in your idiot rage you jostled your useless splintered leg and the pain was like nothing you'd ever felt. "Wait!" You screamed, because you knew it should start growing back any moment now. You'd see that smoke and you'd be alright, and then your body would be perfect. You'd stand up taller than the buildings and smash them when they tried to hold you down--- -- -
You don't remember much after that. Apparently your parents were phoned. Apparently you'd spoken with them, but you can't remember what was said. You remember a roaring in your head and strange, gore-splattered sights behind your eyelids...
In any case, you were wrong: your leg didn't grow back. It's confusing, but what's even more baffling is why you were so convinced it was coming back in the first place. You are miserable and confused, and your parents visiting you was only a momentary reprieve; they brought you homecooked stuff and your favorite snacks, and a book you'd asked for specifically.
So you read, moving sporadically to squeeze or scratch a limb that isn't there. It hurts, sometimes more than you can bear, but they tell you it'll go away in time. You're scared of "in time". There are things you'll have to deal with that you wish you didn't.
At the moment, you're waiting for Annie. They'll let in more than just your family now, and Annie was the person you needed to see most. You want to see Conny too, you wanna see his thousand watt smile and kiss that laughing mouth, but Annie is privy to things you don't want Conny to touch. You remember the car, last Thanksgiving: you know that Annie feels the guilt, knows the beast. You can make sense of at least that much. You know that she knows you better than those who raised you.
And so, you wait, cold dread in your chest. You wish she didn't have to see you like this, you wish nobody would have to see you like this, but you can't delay the inevitable... You'll have to face her, Conny, Bertholdt, Ymir... Levi...
