Page 21 of Proof Of Life

I don’t want to be reminded that I’m crippled.

That I’m half the man I used to be.

I’m tired, and my arms are beginning to feel like limp noodles.

Weak—like me.

Riggs stands off to the side with his fucking clipboard, and his fucking stopwatch, and stares as I struggle. My breathing comes faster and shorter, and I’m sweating profusely. My attention is on him, hoping for an intervention instead of focusing on my path, and my leg gives out at the knee. I stumble and fall face first on the padded mat.

“Fuck!” I raise my head to see him still staring, looking almost amused. “You just gonna stand there and laugh, or are you gonna help me up?”

He looks like he has all the time in the world. “You’ll get up when you’re ready.”

“Fuck you, this isn’t a game.” I’m snarling the words and spittle flies from my mouth and pools on the mat in front of my face. I’m so angry, I could shred the padding with my bare hands. “Help me up.” Riggs widens his stance and braces his thick arms across his chest as he watches in silence. “Fucking help me!” I hate myself for even having to ask, let alone beg.

His face hardens in the blink of an eye. He's not playing anymore, but neither am I. “Get up,” he snaps.

“I can’t.” I’m too winded to even yell at this point. The words sound as defeated as I feel.

“Get. Up.” He enunciates each word clearly, and each one sounds like a command I can’t disobey.

“I can’t!” Twisting my head, I check to see if we’ve drawn an audience, but thankfully, they’re ignoring us. I’m sure it’s nothing they haven’t seen before.

“You can and you will.” Riggs shakes his head in disgust and scoffs. “And you call yourself a Sergeant First Class. Look how easy you give up. You must’ve made one damn fine leader.”

My face heats with shame and anger. “Fuck you. When I get up, I’m gonna kick your fucking ass.”

“Sounds like a plan. But you have to get your ass off the floor first.” He’s not glaring at me, but he’s not grinning either. Riggs just stands there, calmly waiting for me to get my shit together. It’s fucking infuriating. “Get up. I’m not gonna tell you again.”

“How?” I shout in frustration. I have no more gas in the tank. My will and my energy are completely depleted.

“Roll onto your knee.” Following his orders, I grunt and huff as I roll my body. “Good, now brace your arms and push yourself up with your good leg.” When I’m on all fours, or threes, he says, “Reach for the bar. Pull yourself up.” I just might stroke out before I’m on my feet again. “Just like that, soldier. Was that so hard?”

I’m struggling to catch my breath, and I swipe sweat from my brow and wipe it on my T-shirt. “I’m still gonna kick your ass.”

“Now that, I’d like to see,” he says, looking at my missing leg. “When you finish the parallel bars, you can have a seat.”

I absolutely refuse to go through that again. I’ll finish these fucking bitch bars if it kills me, and it just might. It’s a struggle, but I eventually make it to the end. Riggs is waiting with my wheelchair ready, and I plop into it with all the grace of an elephant.

“You’ve got to stop relying on your good leg to do all the work. It will grow stronger, but eventually, it will give out on you. You can do real damage to your knee. If you lose both legs, you’ll be shit out of luck.” He has a point, but I don’t see the solution. “You’re going to start training with your new prosthetic, learning to put your weight on it, and trusting it to hold you.” Riggs catches my unsure look and smiles. “It’s made of titanium. It’s a lot stronger than your damn leg.”

Then he looks to the waiting area, where Brandt is loitering in the doorway, looking murderous, but also scared shitless.

“Who’s your sergeant at arms?”

The nickname makes me smirk. “My best buddy, Staff Sergeant Aguilar.”

“He looks…intense, and wholly focused on your recovery.”

In a nutshell. “Yeah, that’s understating it.”

“Good. That’s good. You need someone like that in your corner. Will he help you at home?”

“Yeah, he’s going to move in with me. I don’t know where I would be without him. He's become my right hand.”

“Your right leg, you mean.”

“Yeah.” How perfectly apt.

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