Literature
The Intended
My hand hovered in front of the door, a loose fist curled and waiting to knock yet unable to do so. The idea of knocking, of going through with what I was going to do terrified me. I let my hand drop, the metal clicking against my leg when it fell, and a small spot of pain shoot up my body from the hit.
Ow. In all the joy of being home again I had forgotten about my arm.
Months of therapy and training to become comfortable with it and to teach my brain how to operate the arm seemed nothing but hazy memories as I walked the fields of my village. In theory the metal replacement worked the same as my old arm, nerves sent impulses from
Yup. Another one.