You know that second in the shower, right when you turn the water off? It’s still coming out a bit, and then all you have to do is blink, and it’s just little drips. In that second it hits me. I know I’m gonna twist my ankle even if the floor isn’t slippery. I know the airs gonna smell like day old garbage, and their won’t be any messages on the phone. It’s just like the horror movies. You know how the music starts playing, the slow build-up, the shark-attack duh-de-duh-de, whatever. You know what’s coming. You know some dude’s gonna get their head ripped off. It’s like that.

I once tried to watch a movie like that with the sound off. But it stank. I could never tell what I was supposed to feel. I’d jump if someone jumped out from behind a corner, but I wouldn’t be scared, just you can’t help jumping when something comes out like that. I’d think a girl was gonna hit a guy, but then she’d kiss him. It just didn’t make any sense.

On a really good day, there’s this moment. The water’s off. Only dripping. But you’re still standing there, dripping. You just feel right. On those days, it’s like some symphony has raised the roof of the house, nothing can bring you down. Nothing can even bring the roof down. On those days, I always hold off looking in the mirror until the last possible second. It becomes reality if I do.

            It’s those days I don’t even remember it’s gone. Until I look in the mirror. That’s the worst. Forget slipping on the floor, I’ll be walking on the dead legs of upturned music notes, like little thumbtacks, everywhere. The roof just slams back down. I swear you can hear it, this big bang, this clunk, this deep sigh from all the walls right when I look in the mirror.

Funny, though. It only took a few weeks to get used to it, to not seeing the way you all do. I can walk fine. I can talk fine. I’m just missing a damn eye. It’s just a scar. Just this big, sick, puffy scar. If I’d gotten back earlier, they could have fixed it, no one would have been able to tell. But they couldn’t get me back. Not in time. Too dangerous, they said. But me being there, that wasn’t too dangerous. That was ok. It wasn’t too dangerous. It’d be like the horror movies, you’d jump, but nothing would really get ya. Whenever I think about it, I start to feel like shit. My belt digs into my stomach, my throat gets kinda sore, I notice a paper cut right between my fingers, where they hurt the most.

I wish I was normal. Like you. I used to lie to make things more interesting. Adding a few inches to my height. Shrinking the inches between the bullet and my arm.

Now, I lie to make things normal. I pretend the shrapnel didn’t hit at all. That there is some woman, somewhere, who’d still want me. And it doesn’t fucking work. Cause I’m not like you, not anymore.