After the Accident

After his accident nothing was the same. He sputtered through the rest of his life on a potent mixture of fear and painkillers. He wasn't the same anymore. He wasn't the same as anybody. His face was lopsided now, a rotten piece of fruit, and he'd stare at people through it. One eye drooped, and that whole side of his face was unnaturally smooth, polished almost. The result of numerous skin grafts. And he walked like he was held together with staples, which he was. His insides, at any rate.

The accident had taken him apart piece by piece and he'd had to be put back together. The surgeons threw out the manual and just winged it. Leftover pieces? Are you sure they're important? Just stomp on him to get every last thing in there, every last loop of intestine and so on. And after that, he was a different person.

On the outside, he was slow. Walked slow. Talked slow. Couldn't run or jump anymore, not that adults have much call. On the inside, he rocketed from one thought to the next, and cursed his body for not being able to keep up. He trusted no one. His accident didn't mellow him. His accident hammered him flat. Sharpened him. Dunked his boiling bones in a bucket of water and hardened him. He scared babies and small animals, but his old friends didn't want to be around him either. It was the way he stared, probably. And the way it took him so long to get the words out, like he had to take them apart with his tongue first. He didn't care. He didn't need them. He didn't need anyone. He had too many things going on in his head now to waste time with people.

A week after getting out of the hospital, he had shuffled into Art's Cuts and tilted his head back and called everyone in there a son of a bitch. Then he left on busted legs and the guys in the chairs, and Art, didn't say anything for a good five minutes.