I had suspicions they might come even years after I left high school behind me for good.
Not unlikely.
I hear a lot of people still have school nightmares well into adulthood, and that’s in many cases without regular traumatic experiences.
But that state of mind in the nightmares? I felt like that now. Trying to keep from panicking, knowing that no matter what I did, I was counting on luck and forces beyond my control to not ruin my day, my week, my month. Ruin my life.
Yeah, uncertainty and helplessness are shitty feelings.
I’d done the heroic thing. Drawn Leviathan away from those in the shelter who were still alive. A part of me was proud of myself. The rest of me? Faced with the idea of spending the rest of my life in a wheelchair? I felt like an idiot of epic proportions.
At least the sacrifice of the use of your legs wouldn’t be in vain.
I’d bought into the idea of the grand, noble gesture, and in the here and now it felt like I had to convince myself that what I had done mattered. It sure as shit didn’t seem to matter to anyone else.
Maybe not to the PRT, at least.
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