Picking up the pieces

	The roar of fire cut through the deafening silence. The metal shrapnel still lingering in the air seemed to stop, as if they were hung with invisible threads with delicate precision. Her body hardly registered what had happened but she felt herself pushed back and knocked to the floor. As she stared at the smoke coiling up into the blue sky, she was keenly aware of a beating noise in her ears. Slowly and softly at first, but progressively getting louder and faster. Thump. Thump. Was this her heartbeat? She tried to move her body but it was as if an invisible force was pressing down on her, suffocating her...
    The girl’s eyes snapped open. She could still feel the loud beating rhythm of her heart continue to pound in her chest. That nightmare again. Every detail was exactly as she had remembered it and she swore she could still feel the heat from the flames and the choking fumes of dust and smoke.
    She doesn’t move for a solid minute, ignoring the slightly damp mattress from her sweat as the scene plays itself over and over again in her head. Even shutting her eyes doesn’t stop it from haunting her. She finally turns her head to read the tiny alarm clock near her bed. It’s 5:06 am.
    The girl doesn’t say anything as she watches the bedsheets fall from her body as she gets up. Her oversized shirt slightly sticks to her body but there is something more striking about her. Her sleepwear sleeves partially obscure it, but what’s remaining of her right arm is just a tiny fleshy stump that extends from her shoulder. Her other limb coming out of the left sleeve ends just below the elbow.
    The doctors had told her how lucky it was that they were able to save her elbow. Lucky! They said it was lucky that she still had a joint to work with, as if the fact that she was now missing both hands just a minor inconvenience. She chose not to think about how “lucky” it was that it was her non dominant arm that was much shorter.
    The girl yawned, then brushed the amber hair from her face, the scar on her arm stump brushing up against the one on her face. Her longer arm groped her drawer, patting around until finally picking up her hairband, grabbing it with the inside of her elbow. With her hair no longer blocking her face, she throws off the covers revealing a single pale leg with a long scar running up the length of it.
    The ground was cold, and she shivered as her bare left foot touched the polished wood floor. A trickle of sunlight teased its way through the windows. Her prosthetic leg lay to the side, leaning against the wall, but she didn’t want to put on that cumbersome thing.
Wordlessly, she hopped towards her crutch that was also resting against the wall, albeit farther away. She mentally made a note to leave it closer to her bed before hopping under the covers. It had taken her a long time to learn, but her stubbornness had paid off in learning how to use a crutch without hands. With the crutch tightly nestled under what was left of her right arm, she walks out of her bedroom with only a slight unsteadiness in her gait.
	The kitchen felt more empty than usual. All the unused pots and pans had been put away in the cabinets. The girl tried to think about what was even the last thing she even made in the kitchen. It was some kind of pasta dish that ended up tasting much better than she had expected…her stomach grumbled at the thought of food. There was nothing in her fridge, she knew that much, so she peered into the cabinet containing snacks. The few bags of chips that still remained were tucked into the corner. The girl had to strain herself, balancing on her toes and stretching her arm stump to be able to get ahold of one. Holding the bag down with her elbow, she tears it open with her teeth. She ignores the crumbs and salt as the contents of the bag spill out. The chips were stale, salty, and flavorless.
    She wiped the remaining flecks of salt from her lips and brushed the empty bag into the trash where it rested on the top of other discarded bags. She sighed. It had been the first time in a very long time that she found herself awake before noon. The light from the morning sun felt alien to her and she looked up at the ceiling to avert her gaze from the crawling rays of sunlight that were now illuminating her studio. Unused to being up so early, the girl pondered her options. She wasn’t feeling particularly sleepy nor was she looking forward to more nightmares so sleeping wasn’t a choice. She rarely went outside unless she was forced to and that would involve her having to put on her prosthetic leg and more clothes. Her options felt limited, confined, and the small kitchen space made her feel even more constrained.
    She thought her studio would be more welcoming, but she suddenly felt a sense of loneliness as she entered. How long has it been since she’s been in here? She took a sad look at the familiar pieces of her old life: the piano keyboard to the side, a work desk near the window, a ragged sofa that she used to nap on, the easel that stood in the middle of the room with an incomplete painting of some dark blue bird on it.
	The girl laid her stump on the keyboard, slowly tracing it. A curved line arose from her touch, cutting through the thin layer of dust. She sneezed, and then coughed from the dust. When her coughing had subsided, she looked around. She was still alone, but the sounds that she had made lingered in the air and their presence made her feel less lonely.
	Her old stool was still nearby. That was good. She didn’t have to move too far to nudge it closer to the easel with her crutch. She knelt down to examine some of the tubes of paint on the ground. The paint had long dried on them and opening them was going to be difficult. Placing her leg stump on the tube, she pinched the cap with her toes. It took slow and deliberate movements but the girl was able to crack open the caked paint and open it.
	The palette was nearby on the floor so she pulled it toward her with her toes. Applying some pressure with her leg stump she squeezed the tube so a globule of blue formed on it. First one color, then a second, soon the various colors seemed to brighten up the room. The girl looked around to see what else she would need. There were the various towels and rags she had used before and more than enough paper towels. The water, of course. She couldn’t remember the last time she moved so quickly as she almost hopped to the kitchen before grabbing her crutch.
	She could barely contain her excitement as she crutched back into the studio, cradling the jar of water, pressing it against herself with her longer arm stump. The water leaped back and forth, threatening to spill at the speed of her pace. The girl placed the jar of water on the ground next to her art supplies and sat on her stool to look at the half formed bird on the canvas. She considered trying to look for another fresher canvas but didn’t want to lose the sense of momentum she had. It didn’t feel quite right to do so.
	The paintbrush held in her toes quivered at first, as she tried to move it like she used to. It dropped, slipped, and would fumble around but the girl was undeterred. Every time she would carefully pick it up again between her toes and continue. It was slow at first, but with a streak of red, and then a flash of yellow, she could feel herself getting lost within the explosion of colors.

*************************************************************************************************************

    “Sue?” There came a gentle tapping on the door. “Sue, are you up yet? I’m going to be letting myself in now.”
    There is the sound of a lock turning before the door opens.
    “Sue? I’ve brought-” The visitor’s voice cuts off as they notice the girl sleeping on the sofa, laying there in her oversized shirt, some patches of dried paint decorating it.
	“Come on, you’ll catch a cold like this.” The visitor goes to rouse the sleeping girl but stops when they see the completed painting. It stood in the center of the studio with such vivid colors that it made even the last afternoon rays of sunlight dull. An understanding smile appears on the visitor’s face.
    The plastic bag filled with lunch boxes makes a soft sound as it rests on the table. The door closes slowly, softly, silently. A deliberate second passes before there is the sound of the door locking.
    Sue stirred for a moment before shuffling her body and tugging the blanket closer with her tiny arm stump. There is a smile on her face as she drifts into a peaceful slumber.