Free Blind the Stars (Rose of the Dawn Series Book 3) by Ily Maguire

peel off the
black utility wear of Aegis. I turn to my right. There is a full-length mirror
mounted on the wall. Hesitant, I step over to it. Naked, all I can see is my
arm.
    The
light grey of the plastic is a compliment to the pale-whiteness of my skin. The
wires that course in and out of the bionic arm at the wrist and elbow are all
of the colors of the rainbow. I run my real hand up the plastic from my wrist to
my shoulder. Smooth. Almost warm, but much cooler where silver bolts hold the
plastic in place. The skin around my shoulder is dimpled and folds over the top
of the prosthetic. It isn’t fat, but just excess skin. Is the arm too small? I
gently tug at the arm. It doesn’t budge. My skin begins to sweat. Clammy and
cold. Why am I so nervous? Then I twist it. A bit to the right and then
to the left. It wiggles a bit more each time until I’m able to slide my arm
right off my shoulder.
    All
sensation is lost and in a moment of panic, I jam the arm back onto my
shoulder. I hold it there, squeezing it in case it wants to fall off. What
have I done? I should’ve left it alone. Please don’t fall off. I
uncurl the fingers of my real arm from around my bionic upper arm. I stop
squeezing and let go. I exhale a deep sigh of relief. It doesn’t go anywhere. And
I can move it again. I wiggle my fake fingers and flap my arm at the elbow.
    I
look at the clothes on the dresser. Folded in perfect squares, stacked in a
perfect pile.
    I’m
going to try again. I want to see what’s left. I need to see what’s left.
    Again,
gently, but with greater purpose, I pull the bionic arm off of my shoulder. I
don’t need to wiggle it back and forth. I stand in front of the mirror in
shock. In awe. I take another deep breath. This time it isn’t relief I feel,
but amazement. It’s amazing.
    From
my neck down to my shoulders, I am symmetrical. The slight curve of my shoulder
on one side leads to an arm where if it flexes and relaxes, I can see a bicep
and triceps. Muscles in my forearm contract when I squeeze my hands into a
fist. My nails are lighter, but the same color as my skin. Lines on the palm of
my hand are mine. Fingerprints are no others’.
    On
the other side, my shoulder leads to my upper arm. There is no bicep that I can
see. The end of my arm has been rounded off to a dull point that seems to have
been folded in on itself. It is the same color as my skin, but a shade lighter.
I touch the top of what’s left of my arm with a shaky hand and run my fingers
over dimples in the skin. Soft. Brighter pink closer to the stump. This is the
part of my arm that would be hidden by the bionic one. The part of my arm that
is in the process of regrowing. I stare at my arm in the mirror. There are
target points and wires all over the stump where they connect to sensors within
the prosthetic. I run my fingers over the wires. They don’t penetrate my skin,
which surprises me. I can feel every flutter of my fingers, every pause over
the wiring on my arm. Every gentle tug. This is how they are able to pick up
motor signals from my shoulder. This is how I am able to think something and
have my arm do it. This is how I can feel.
    “I
can do this,” I tell my mirrored self, turning to the left and then the right.
Lifting my arms above my head, then bringing them back down and twisting them
around my body. “I can live with this,” I smile at myself. This is me now.
    I
don’t know how long I spend in front of the mirror, but a knock at the door
shakes me from my exploration. Pike. My heart sinks again.
    “It’s
me, Rose,” Dory says through the door.
    “Be
out in a minute,” I call. More embarrassed at the thought of someone seeing my
naked body, than my missing arm, I get stuck in the white tank top I pull over
my head. I pick the prosthetic up from a dresser and place it back onto my
shoulder. Within a moment, it is reattached, the nerve signals reconnected to
my body. I pull on a pair of black leggings and another black