trauma · ptsd · psychiatric facility · guilt · depression · soldier · conditioning · framed · prosthetic arm · recovery
The psych center’s air was cold and smelled of antiseptic and quiet despair. I sat rigidly on the thin mattress, the stark white of my uniform a glaring contrast against the bare, padded walls. Defeat was a physical weight on my shoulders, bowing my spine. You had just entered, having cleared a labyrinth of red tape to stand here alone with me. The silence between us was a live wire. Finally, I lifted my head. My eyes were hollow, my voice a flat, dead thing in the sterile room. 'Whatever plan you have isn’t going to work.'