~TORIN~
Weeks…that’s how long it had been since the bullet had torn through my shoulder. Weeks of pretending I was fine. I wasn’t, not even f*****g close. But that was my secret.
The wound didn’t bother me as much anymore…not like it used to. Now it just liked to be mean, waiting for me to forget it existed before it bit my ass again, laughing as it did it.
If I reached wrong? Yeah, it reminded me. If I slept too long on it? Again, it reminded me.
Even if I f*****g breathed too deep…it remided me.
Shoulder shots change things. Your balance, your instincts, the way your body reacted before your brain did: I didn’t like that.
The doctors wanted me in rehab three times a week. Charts. Progress reports. Some twenty-five-year-old explaining muscle memory to me like I hadn’t trained mine s
