Symptoms of Life

“No, it’s good,” I assured Liesl, Griffin and company as I hopped out of the ‘Party Wagon’ and onto Dr. Todd’s pristine driveway. I even threw in a shallow smile.

They didn’t complain or question me, instead the just sped off in the direction of McDonald’s for whatever hangover concoction cure the value menu was offering.

Fresh road salt crunched under my unsteady feet, and wind bit at my frozen over face. For once my head felt much heavier then my feet as I dragged the prosthetic limb up the wooden porch stairs.

In a few minutes I had unlocked the door, stepped inside and shook all of the snow off of my jacket. I sat down on ‘Florence’s Chair’ and proceeded to yank the winter boots off of my feet -- slip-ons, because at this stage of life lace up shoes are just too tough. It felt like kindergarten.

The boots went flying off and hit the glass sliding door of a nearby coat closet, leaving an ugly outline of slush on the stainless surface. Shrugging, I stood up and walked – with as much control as I could muster – over to the kitchen. A note laid out on the table explaining that Dr. Todd and his wife would be out for the day skiing with ‘family friends’.

It didn’t feel any lonelier without them here. They weren’t people who I could confide or people that could even stand my presence. I was this avid reminder of drama that happened over a decade ago, just taunting Dr. Todd constantly. If anything, having their house to myself cut off some strings. A sense of freedom hummed in the air like I could quietly be me and let it all out.

The hallway clock chimed for ten o’clock and I walked out of habit towards the kettle where I’d make a cup of hot chocolate every morning. But my eyes caught, on the fridge under the counter. The bar fridge.

Dr. Todd was a bit of a wine connoisseur. He had a cellar in the basement and the fridge was always loaded. He had precisely two glasses every night with his dinner. He called it classy, some people would call it alcoholism.

“Whatever,” I muttered grabbing the neck of the closest bottle, and shutting the glass door shut. I grabbed the bottle opener out of the drawer just to the left and pretty soon I was in my room.

I set the bottle and opener down on the counter in the ensuite bathroom before walking over to turn on the tap of scalding hot water. I poured the remaineder of the coconut bubble bath into the stream, watching as the creamy white fluid spiraled out into fragrent fluff.

The bathroom was newly renovated, but so was the whole house. Before the Florence Todd era the Todd’s had apparently lived in a tall three story mansion, but upon taking me in they relocated to a ‘puny bungalow’.

The bathroom was overdone on the count of Mrs. Todd was an interior decorator. The room was complete with a quartz counter, waterfall sink, heated marble floors, a jaccuzi , and a shower you’d install for your seventy-five year old parent. If memory served me correctly, it was actually the same shower installed in my grandparents retirement home – complete with a seat and removable shower head. Mrs. Todd said it was supposed to make me feel comfortable, it just made me feel weird.

Baths and showers were always my thing. The water always brought a certain calm to me, whether I was swimming in it, sitting, or falling with the full force of gravity from ten meters above. Water was my sanctum and I was happy for the sanctum.

The full length mirror was taunting as I undressed. Where a quad of abs once sat was now nothing more then a hollow whole, my arms had gone flat from a lack of exercise, and my leg was flabbier then I’d ever seen it. I couldn’t see the old me any more when I looked at the reflection. Instead there was an empty shell made up of metal and spare parts.

A small smile spurred my lips when my eyes caught the Olympic tattoo that laid squarely on my lower back, spanning the distance between two dimples. I told my mother I’d wanted a tattoo the moment I saw them in 2008 in Bejiing on the athletes. I told her I’d be at the next Olympics and that I would win and that I would stamp my body with a permanent reminder.

The moment I was done competing in my two events, the 10m synchro and singles, we went with the rest of the team, and I didn’t cry or squirm, I just laughed.

I didn’t dare look at the prosthetic or the stump as I turned towards the counter again. I popped the wine bottle open, and my hand slunk into the top drawer to grab my many prescriptions. The perky pill, the pain pill, and the pooping pill only sat in a split second before they were in my mouth and being washed down with a swig of wine. Only then did I sit down on the toilet seat to remove the alien piece of my body.

Usually I’d get home from school and it would come off, the longest I’d ever had to wear it was for ten hours, never mind twenty four straight ones. The skin was hot to touch, that was the only thing that really made it seem alive.

Dr. Todd’s suture’s were thin and red curving every which way along the bottom, the rest of it was a mix of swollen over-worked tissue and brightly coloured bruises from falling. It looked like it was rotting, it looked disgusting, it looked like road kill, because I was road kill.

I was just a dead deer on the side of the road someone decided to fix so it was a quarter of the way living.

Using the counter I hopped with the bottle of wine over to the bathtub. The red liquid swished nonchalantly as I set it down on the edge and lowered myself using my arms into the pool of bubbles.

A low hum sunk from my lips as I shut my eyes and laid my pounding back onto the tiled wall.

“More wine should do it,” I muttered taking another big gulp from the bottle and swallowing it as quickly as possible. It was possibly the most bitter wine I’d ever had, “definitely not French.”

Setting the half empty bottle back on the ledge I picked up the nearby bar of soap and proceeded to press it firmly into my skin. It glided endlessly over my skin, not caring about the countless still-fresh scars where glass had embedded itself or the old ones that they’d edit out whenever I did a promotion or photoshoot. They were there though, for everyone to see on the world stage at competition. Water washed all masks away and they knew just how fake it all was – if they were paying attention.

I’d never looked like the girl with endless legs needed for the fashion shoots they’d made me out to be, nor did I had skin clear enough to be a cleanser spokes person. I was freckled and blue and that’s the way it always was. But they said that they could fix it and they did. I guess you could fix anything with photoshop, even a mechanical leg.

I took another deep breath of wine before grabbing a nearby raiser and propping my leg out of the water. It didn’t slide nearly as easily as the soap, it caught on every bump and scar emphasizing its imperfection.

“Ouch,” I hissed as the razor slipped under the skin just around my knee. A frown reached across my face as the bright red liquid pooled in a little bubble and stacked itself up towards the ceiling before collapsing.

Picking up the bottle and swallowing the last bit of its contents I realized just how intriguing the blade looked in the artificial light stuck in its plastic casing.

Tears beaded from my eyes, deflating the white bubbles below, and a hollow sob soon scrapped through the air for my ears only. The tears didn’t stop though as my hands played with my legs and arms, and the screaming climbed slowly to be out of control.

That’s when it happened. I raised the cool silver blade up and slide it across my wrist effortlessly. Unlike the cut on my leg, this blood didn’t pool up into a collapsible mountain, instead it slithered out in an uneven red line reaching down towards my hand.

It didn’t hurt. It didn’t feel good like an ultimate release of pressure. It didn’t feel like my whole life had concluded and the meaning had been found. It didn’t feel like anything.

So the empty white bottle fell into the tub, and I let the razor go again.

And again.