Sitting on my cot, I flip mindlessly through the atlas when I hear Steve come down the wooden steps. I refrain from talking, letting him the first in on the conversation. He walks up to my alcove, meticulously clicking his heels on the concrete floor as he does, making sure that his shoes are within my line of sight before stopping. I slow my search, relax my shoulders, unconsciously changing my breathing pattern to let him know I noticed his presence.

"What are you reading?" His voice is stern, direct.

"I couldn't remember what were the original countries in former Yugoslavia so I tried to look it up, but this edition is too old." I only now raise my head to look at him. "I'd love it if you could rent one for me at the library."

"Libraries are funded by taxes and managed by the states, and therefore a product of communism which I will have no part in." He opens his arms and his expression softens slightly. "Come here.”

"Hard day at work?"

"Just the usual."

I slide towards him and offer my right hand. He tugs me upwards and helps me stay balanced on my single foot. One hand on my lower back, he runs the other through my hair before taking a big whiff of it, his nose buried within his own mess. He finds my right hand again and places his fingers in-between my empty knuckles, occasionally feeling my scars. The remains of my thumb shyly runs back and forth on his skin.

"We're having visitors tonight." He detaches himself and leans his forehead against mine.

"Anyone I know?" I ask, tongue in cheek.

"Christine and Hunter." He lifts my hand and examines each of my stumps. "From work."

I fidget with the rim of my shirt, trying not to stammer. "Any chance for me to have dinner upstairs with you?"

"We'll see. Do you still…"

In an instant, intense pain flares in my right leg, explodes in my calf. Steve catches me just as I collapse, both hands clutching at the empty air beyond my stump. I try to control my breathing, looking through the mental exercises I know to alleviate the pain but I'm too distracted. It travels down to my ankle and into my foot, like molten metal is coursing through my veins. I know it’s been gone for almost three years now, but I'd be nice if my brain knew it, too. Suddenly, the pain vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Slightly out of breath, I wrap my intact hand on the stump of my calf as I stretch it forward and back.

“Does that answer your question?” I reply with a pained grin, chuckling.

I guess he didn't like my tone. His face hardens again, lips pressed tightly together, and he snaps. He takes hold and buries his fingers deep into the flesh of my forearm. I should know better than to open my mouth at this moment, but a whimper still manages to escape my lips without my consent.  I clench my fist and twist it every way to try to tolerate the pain as his grip tightens more and more… Until a strange look comes across his face. One I’ve seen before… twice. Deep within his mind, gears are turning. Still in his hand, my arm is being gauged, estimated.

Upstairs, we hear the doorbell ring and the muffled footsteps of at least two people. Letting go of me, he quickly walks away to reach his working station. My hand goes to the sore patch of skin instinctively as I listen to him rummaging, disinfecting, preparing. I look back at my cot, fighting to stay balanced, unsure if I should stand or sit. There’s a knock on the steel door on top of the staircase.

“Steve, are you down here?” A woman’s voice. Christine, I’m assuming.

“Yes, yes, please come join us.” Turning around, he puts on nitrile gloves before grabbing a syringe and a sterile swab. They exchange warm salutations and cheek kisses. “Hunter, this is Ivy.”

“Yes, yes indeed.” A man in his fifties struts forwards. Short, bald, thick glasses, he’s as nonchalant as can be, hands in his pockets. “Just like you described her.” He gestures towards the prepared syringe. “Should I get the wine first?”

“I’ll go with you, this’ll be just a second.” Still half-sitting following my phantom pain flare, I stand back up, trying to look presentable for Steve’s guests. “Voilà.”

A shiver runs down my back when the needle pierces my skin. The injection burns my flesh, the remaining alcohol stings as he removes the needle. “Was that Versed to keep me under control during dinner?”

“No it was Fentanyl. For surgery.”

My stomach drops down to my heels. While he and his guests go back upstairs, I let myself fall back on the mattress, clutching the muscle where he injected the medication. Fucking fuck. I know what’s coming now. My hands find the polished iron bangle secured around my ankle and tug on the chain, as if it would magically break on the millionth try.

I look at my only foot, flexing my toes. Is this what's coming off? Something pulses deep within my brain. It's harder for me to focus, like the room is filled with smoke. The chain link clinks when I cross my legs, resting my truncated calf on top. I put my fingerless hand on it and imagine myself pinching the flesh of my stump, rolling the loose skin between my fingers, digging my nails into the scar, but nothing happens. Apart from a few twitches, they remain superposed like some kind of cruel joke. Even my thumb, cut halfway through the first phalange, refuses to participate.

I sigh as another pulse resonates through my mind and I let myself fall flat on my back. Arms by my side or crossed, I can't find a good resting position. While one of them might be leaving me anytime tonight, I shiver at the fact that, in Steve's mind, it's already not part of me anymore. Should I enjoy them while they last or reject them like a poison as soon as I can? Suddenly, I'm freezing. My limbs disgust me. If Steve wants them off, I no longer want them anymore. I grab my wrist with my fingerless palm, failing to grasp it firmly, wanting nothing more than to pinch it off.

Then, just as quickly, I'm drenched in sweat. I close my eyes and feel the room turning around me. My limbs are tingling, slowly going numb. Yes, I remember Fentanyl, now. Everything becomes warm and nice, the mattress issssss soft, the thumping in my brain feels nice, like a tiny gnome is playing the drum between my ears. Steve is back now. He's dressed in scrubs, as are Christen and Gatherer. Hehe. I'm funny.

"So about dinner.."

I try to sit up but my body is made of Jell-O. Also, I've been tied down. I frown, only now noticing they moved me to the other end of the basement, on the stainless steel table. Hunper's face is close again, masked.

"I’m injecting something to make you sleep, it may feel warm in your arm, it's normal, you’re okay."

To my right, he's pushing a milk-like substance into my veins, yet I have no memory of an IV being installed on my arm.  "When did you install this?" My voice is slurred, slowed, distorted by the drugs. I try to fight, but my chest feels heavy, my eyelids heavier.

I black out.

The sounds of conversation tickle the back of my brain. I can barely open my eyes, let alone lift my 2 tons head, but at least I think I know where I am. I'm lying in a lazyboy in the upstairs sitting room. Jazz is playing.

"She's walking up, dear." Kristen, right? Something like that. "Yes thank you." Her glass clinks, wine is poured.

"She's holding up just fine. You were right, you know. You know your subject well."

"To me she's more than that." He interjects, a slight irritation bending his voice. A sudden increase of pain in my arm jerks me awake. "Take it easy, Ivy."

"I…"

Leaning on my elbow to push myself up, I almost black out again under the pain. Indescribable, throbbing, it courses up my arm and digs into my shoulder like razor sharp talons. I manage to grab the armrest with my fingerless palm and gag, retching so hard I thought I'd vomit one of my lungs. Anxiety ties a knot in my gut, incapable of opening my eyes to face reality. I gasp for air, shoulders tensed, and fold forward in another dry heaving reflex.

The others' voices are dulled at the back of my head, like I'm underwater. They reach my ears but are shut down by my brain, having more important, maybe even life saving, stimuli to manage first. Slowly, over the course of several minutes, the pain fades away until nothing remains but a low, constant hum. My arm feels funny, lighter, almost weightless.

"...success."

My eyes flutter open, blinded by the nearby chandelier. "Wha.. who… when.."

"The surg…" My head dips back underwater. "...ess."

I squint, trying hard to discern what's in front of me, before I realize it's Steve's face. Its contours are blurred against the backlight, his features barely recognizable. His hand meets mine.

"Come."

I'm being tugged up, hobbling on my foot, my leg failing me at every hop. I look for support with my left hand, flailing through the air but finding none. Again, I have a strange feeling of weightlessness on this side. My brain fights to hold on to Steve's hand, sending nerve impulses down severed nerves, commanding long gone fingers.

I'm plopped at the end of the table before a glass of water and a ceramic plate, empty if not for a single yellowish pill sitting in its center. I reach for it, my left arm coming into view, and I gag again. There are blood stained bandages wrapped around my arm. I close my eyes and set my hand on the opposite shoulder, blindly feeling down until I reach the stump. I didn't have to go far.

"Take the Naproxen, it'll ease the pain." Chrissie sips slowly from her wine glass. I fumble at it with my maimed hand and toss it in my mouth, swallowing it dry. "Good girl."

"Don't be condescending now, Christine." Christine! I'll try to remember it now. Steve lifts a hand to halt any further degrading comments on me.

"Yes, I can still see the Sevoflurane swirling behind her eyes. Give her some time."

I feel my head leave my body and I blackout again.