Chapter 18 Back Where I Started #2
“Dr. York, where did you find that information? I wasn’t aware,” Shakti asks.
“Oh, I wasn’t completely sure so I didn’t mention it. The letter G was written on the tag of an article of clothing she wore when she arrived. It was barely legible,” he replies.
The letter G seems familiar. It feels almost right. It also feels like I hated it.
A chuckle echoes in my head. One of the twins teases, Little G, I like it. I think I’ll call you that, instead of Jessica. I roll my eyes.
“I’m sorry. Is everything okay?” the doctor inquires.
Startled, I quickly nod. Great! I almost got into trouble. Thanks a lot, dude.
I hear laughter from both of them this time.
The exam lasts only a few minutes. The doctor asks yes or no questions so I can easily communicate with him. I have difficulty concentrating on the doctor, though, because the boys’ thoughts overwhelm me. I can’t filter them out.
Shakti and Dr. York discuss the various surgeries I will need.
One to repair the hole in my throat. Laser eye surgery to fix my vision.
Orthodontic surgery for my teeth. I try to pay attention, but I don’t quite understand all the words he uses.
Shakti seems to have everything under control.
She asks questions and agrees or disagrees with his suggestions.
I feels like her child, not some stranger who just appeared out of nowhere. However, I am afraid to hope that I could stay with her, especially after the disappointment from last night.
Four weeks pass, and the surgeries don’t go as well as everyone hoped. I am severely anemic from losing so much blood. The doctor mentions my body is malnourished so healing also takes longer than for any standard shifter, especially one who hasn’t transitioned yet.
Although the hole in my throat was repaired, the initial incision damaged my vocal cords, and scar tissue developed, preventing me from creating sound. They sought out a specialist to determine if they could rectify the damage. Otherwise, I won’t be able to talk ever again.
The laser eye surgery didn’t go as planned either. The injuries were so bad that I needed to repeat surgeries and a special lens implant was inserted. Even so, my vision is not 100 percent, and I need to wear glasses.
Surgery after surgery, setback after setback, I fall into a mild depression, but the twins, Jeremy and Justin, don’t give up on me.
I’m not sure why two sixteen-year-old, nearly six feet tall, blond-haired, green-eyed teen boys want anything to do with me.
Still, they visit every day, usually after school.
Sometimes, they even stay the night. If they don’t have school, they won’t leave me alone, always acting as my interpreter and making me laugh at their stories and their pranks.
Before I could see, I imagined Shakti to be a beautiful woman. And she is. She’s tall, at least five foot nine, and slender. Her big green eyes and long blonde hair match her boys. She also never leaves my side, unless someone is with me.
Anders visits daily to check on me and talk to Dr. York. Even Chris and Elias stop by to see how I am doing. The never-ending visitors help with my internal battle of despair, but it creeps in when I am left alone, especially at night when everyone sleeps.
The nightmares continue to haunt me. I gave up on sleep altogether.
To make things worse, I finally gain the courage to look at my reflection, really look at myself.
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I turn my head to inspect the left side of my face.
I examine the scars. A long, puckered, angry, red, jagged line trails from the corner of my left eye to my chin, and another one starts at the corner of my mouth and sweeps up toward my ear.
The whites of my eyes are blood red, contrasting the paleness of my light blue eyes.
They make me think of vampire eyes. My lashes are slowly growing back in short little stubs, and my right eyelid has a pink scar.
Turning my head back and forth slowly, I examine the rest of my face.
The too-big glasses hide most of my face, drawing the focus more than the scars.
I rub my recently shaved head. Shakti attempted to salvage what was left of my hair, but in the end, I asked if she could just shave it all off.
Angry pink and red bald spots dot my scalp.
I lift my chin to see the freshly healing surgical scar at the base of my throat, where the hole had been.
A faded pink line circles my neck just above it.
I trace it with my fingertip. I hope this one fades. It’s a little harder to hide.
Sighing, I undo the ties at my neck and back and remove the clinic gown, looking down at my chest. Dr. York seems to think that I am about twelve or fourteen years old. Cupping my breasts, I think I am about a full B cup. Would a twelve-year-old have boobs?
I graze my fingertips down my arms along the linear pink-and-white scars, stopping where horizontal scars weave in, creating a tic-tac-toe pattern on my wrist. Turning to view my back in the mirror, I discover the worst of the wounds.
Jagged markings run down my back all the way to my right and left calves.
It almost looks like I was mutilated and sewn back together.
Facing forward, I find only one faded pink scar on each thigh, rectangular shaped about an inch long.
No scars adorn my chest or stomach. I still have the feeding tube, though, because of my teeth.
I stare at my face and pretend to smile.
My teeth are broken in half, some down to the gums, and several of my bottom teeth twist and jut out crookedly.
The orthodontic specialist tried to salvage my original teeth, removing the ones he just couldn’t save.
He applied braces to straighten the ones still present, using spacers to account for the missing ones.
Shakti promised that they would insert implants once everything else was fixed.
I’m not an idiot. Implants cost money, and good ones that stay in place when you shift cost more than a fancy condo in the city.
I know it’s silly and probably vain to feel upset about my appearance.
I know I should be dead. I eventually want to meet a boy, someone I could one day fall in love with.
But who will want to kiss me with fucked-up, ugly, missing teeth?
Who will want to touch me with scars all over my body?
How many times will I have to explain myself when someone asks about them?
I look worse than a street junkie or a boxer, like someone threw me in a meat grinder, pulled me out, and pieced me back together.
Opening my mouth, I examine my teeth again, smiling once more.
I study all the wounds and scars. When I can’t stomach my reflection any longer, I remove my glasses, slide to the floor, and quietly sob.