Empty Grasp

The last thing he remembered was being outside on a clear day. Not a cloud in the sky for miles - a wide ocean of blue above him. Before that he could remember everything in detail. What he ate for dinner. Who he spoke to while walking around the barracks - wishing Lopez a happy birthday before he and his team left for their patrol of the neighborhood. It all became unclear once he had entered the city. He could still see the groups of children, running along the streets, making their way to school, laughing as they went. He remembered the beeping cars, the yelling of street vendors. But then it just stopped.

His mind hit a wall.

When he had first woken up - he wasn't sure where he was. His eyelids were taped down - shaken free by a few seconds of blinking. The world was washed out - his eyes hadn't seen light in some time. Everything was fuzzy. His ears were ringing. His entire body ached. Moving his head sent pains shooting down his spine. He could remember feeling the IV still lodged under his skin - the pressure against the top of his hand. By the time the doctor came in, he was worried. As much as he tried, he couldn't feel his left arm.

Before he could ask, it was explained to him. He had been on patrol, nearly a month prior, when the IED had gone off. He had taken the brunt of the impact and the team had done all they could in surgery, but his arm couldn't be saved below the elbow.

As time passed, the news settled in and slowly but surely he adjusted to his new life. It was tougher than he had thought. The hours of physical therapy. Trying to relearn how to drive, tie his shoes, take a shower. Everything had changed. But throughout it all, the phantom pains haunted him the most. He'd wake up at night, needles shooting up his left arm - where it used to be. His mind was playing tricks on him. Sometimes he'd catch himself, reaching for something, only to realize he was using the wrong hand.

But recently it had grown worse. He couldn't focus on anything but his missing limb. He was scared to go outside. Scared to interact with others. Venture out into the public. His days had become nothing but mulling around his apartment, fearful of every moment - wondering the next time it would strike. He had tried going to the doctor. Explaining it to him. But he just suggested he go to a therapist. Discuss his night terrors, what he had seen when he was overseas. When he didn't listen, he tried others, only hear the same responses. Sometimes he was laughed off, other times being offered medication to help with the "PTSD."

Regardless of the doctor he spoke too, they never believed him.

Back when he had been discharged from the hospital, they had warned him of the occasional experience of a phantom limb - that his body would take time adjusting to the radical change. No one had prepared him though for those moments when he felt cold fingers brush across his phantom hand.