Routine. Up in the morning early before my mother gets up. Quiet time. Time to reflect and think about how I got here.
Not that it changes anything. I still hate my life, and I am sorry for that. I know others have it worse, no job, homeless, scrounging for food and somehow they can find things to smile about. I grab the house leg, as I know it, the one that I year in place of my left leg when I am in the house and when I go to work. Today is Saturday, so it will just be my house leg today. I'll run in about an hour and then I'll change it for my blade leg. Leg changing became a feature three years previously when a flash and explosion took my left leg and ate up my insides with shrapnel. I came home broken and battered. I was supposed to be depressed and suicidal, but my depression didn't happen then. I could still find my smile in those days. She was my smile and now she's my depression. These thoughts never helped, never changed my life, but they were my routine and I hadn't been able to ditch them. Now it was time for the leg change, time to run, time to try to get rid of the demons that gnawed at my soul and heart. "You going for your run, Jerome?" "Yeah, Mom, I'll probably be a while, going to take a long one today." "Ok, be careful. You have your phone right?" "Yep got it in my pouch." "Good, you can call if you need a ride home or anything?" "You bet." I smiled, as I left her. The smile was fake and forced, but like most people, you could fool them with a few muscle twitches and enough time. After a few months, everyone assumes you are better. Most of them, no matter how good their intentions are, actually get angry when you still feel bad. I had learned to fake it to save everyone from any upset, but still the pain ate away like a cancer, silent and deadly.
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