Echoes of Secrets (Obsidian MC #7)

Chapter Two

Evie

“I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?”

“Ms. Winters, I gave them solid reasons, but they’ve denied you again.”

“Denied?” I say in disbelief. This makes the second time. “What in the world do they expect me to do? Hobble around on one leg for the rest of my life?”

The doctor sighs, her expression a mixture of pity and discomfort, as though she wishes she had better news but knows there’s nothing more she can do. “I understand how frustrating this is, Ms. Winters. The insurance company claims the prosthetic isn’t a ‘necessary expense’ given your current mobility with crutches.”

I laugh, but it’s bitter and hollow. “Not a necessary expense,” I repeat, the words tasting sour. “Do they have any idea what it’s like to live this way? How much harder it is to do even basic things? Do they even care?”

The doctor hesitates. She doesn’t need to say it; I already know the answer. Of course, they don’t care.

“It’s not fair,” I say, my voice rising before I catch myself and lower it again. “It’s just not fair.”

“I know,” she says gently, leaning forward across her desk. “If I could change their decision, I would in a heartbeat. But this is the third appeal, and they’ve been firm every time. We can try again in six months.”

Six months. That’s a lifetime when every step I take reminds me of what I’ve lost.

My hands clench around the strap of my purse in my lap, the faux leather creaking under the pressure. I want to cry, to scream, to do something, but what’s the point? This isn’t the first time life has knocked me down, and it won’t be the last.

I take a deep breath and force myself to let go of the strap, my fingers trembling as I smooth the fabric of my skirt instead. “Thank you, Dr. Collins. I know you’re doing everything you can.”

Her expression softens, and she nods. “I wish I could do more.”

I stand, grabbing my crutches and situating them under my arms with practiced ease. “I’ll be fine,” I say with a smile that I hope looks real. “I always am.”

“Evalynn…”

But I shake my head, cutting her off. “It’s okay. Really. Thank you for trying.”

The doctor watches me for a moment longer before nodding. “Take care of yourself, Ms. Winters. And call me if you need anything, even if it’s just to vent.”

I nod, but I don’t look back as I hobble out of the building.

Outside, the crisp winter air bites at my cheeks as I step onto the sidewalk. Snow flurries swirl around me, sticking to my coat and the ends of my scarf. The world is moving around me. Cars are honking, people chatting, a child laughing somewhere in the distance, and for a moment, I feel untethered, as though I don’t belong in any of it.

The sting of tears pricks at my eyes, but I blink them back. No use crying. Tears won’t change the fact that the world isn’t built for people like me.

With a resigned sigh, I adjust my grip on the crutches and start down the sidewalk toward the bus stop. Each step feels heavier than the last, not because of the physical strain but because of the weight of everything I carry with me; disappointments, frustrations, the quiet gnawing fear that this is all my life will ever be.

But then, as I reach the corner, a woman passes by and smiles at me. “Good afternoon,” she says cheerfully, her voice warm and genuine.

I smile back, and for a moment, the weight lifts just a little.

“Good afternoon,” I reply, my voice soft but steady.

Because even though life keeps throwing obstacles in my path, I’ve learned to keep going. One step at a time, no matter how hard it gets.

And I will.

***

The bus stop is several blocks from my apartment. Normally, I don’t mind the walk. It gives me time to think. To watch the world around me. But today, every step feels like a battle. The cold seeps into my skin, biting at the edges of my remaining strength.

By the time I reach my building, sweat clings to my brow despite the chill in the air. The familiar ache of pain has grown sharper. More insistent. And every movement sends fresh jolts of pain racing up my right leg. My right leg that isn’t there and hasn’t been for two years.

I fumble with my keys at the door, the tremble in my fingers making it harder to align them with the lock. When the door finally swings open, I barely manage to step inside before the pain slams into me like a tidal wave.

A guttural groan escapes my lips as I double over, clutching my knee and wishing it was that area that my brain is saying hurts. My crutches clatter to the floor, forgotten as I lower myself onto the couch. My breath comes in short, shallow gasps, each one catching in my throat as if I’m choking on the pain.

It’s not real, I remind myself. It’s just your brain playing tricks on you.

But no matter how many times I tell myself that, it doesn’t stop the fire racing up a limb that no longer exists. It doesn’t stop the crushing ache in my calf or the sharp, stabbing sensation in my toes.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my fists into the couch cushions. “Breathe, Evie,” I whisper to myself. “Just breathe. It’ll pass. It always passes.”

Except when it doesn’t.

Minutes feel like hours as I ride out the storm, my body curling in on itself as though trying to shield me from the invisible assault. The room around me blurs, the edges of reality slipping away until all I can focus on is the pain and the sound of my own ragged breathing.

Eventually, the intensity begins to fade. The sharp edges dull, and the fire in my leg simmers to a low, throbbing burn. I uncurl slowly, wincing as the residual ache pulses in time with my heartbeat.

I reach for the bottle of my prescribed painkillers on the coffee table, shaking two pills into my hand. My fingers still tremble as I grab a bottle of water and swallow them down.

I lean my head back against the cushions, staring up at the cracked ceiling. The medicine will work eventually, but I already know that it will take away just enough pain to make it bearable but never enough to make it go away completely.

That’s all it ever does. Just takes away the edge. More would help. Maybe something stronger.

But I’ve seen what addiction does to people, and I refuse to go down that path. Not ever.

My hand drifts absently to my thigh, fingers brushing over the soft fabric of my sweatpants where the prosthetic should have been. The leg that should have been mine. I press my palm against the empty space, trying to ground myself, but it doesn’t help. The ache is still there, throbbing like a ghost that refuses to leave.

Two years. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.

But how do you get used to something that’s always there, lurking in the background like a shadow you can’t escape?

I open my eyes, blinking up at the ceiling. A small crack runs through the plaster, forming a jagged line that splits into two, like a lightning bolt frozen in time. It reminds me of how life works. How one moment can shatter everything, leaving you to pick up the pieces, even when you know you’ll never be whole again.

My stomach growls, but the thought of getting up to fix something feels impossible. I could order in, but the guilt gnaws at me. Money doesn’t come easy, and after today’s news, I can’t justify spending what little I have on anything other than necessities.

Not that a new prosthetic would even be a necessity in the eyes of the people deciding my fate.

I rub my temples, feeling the familiar sting of tears. I hate crying. It makes me feel weak, and I’ve spent too long fighting to survive to let myself feel that way.

“Pull it together, Evie,” I whisper to the empty room. “You’ve made it this far. You can make it a little further.”

The words don’t make me feel any better, but I say them anyway because sometimes pretending to be okay is all you can do.