THE MEDICAL LEAVE
After fifteen years, Felix ran out of luck. All the cars he repaired amidst combat, tanks he spruced in the middle of no where with few tools couldn’t prepare him for the shell explosion. He heard it coming, he lifted his arms to protect his face and while his head took a small blow, his right arm took the worst. Rushed to the closest medical services, most of Felix’s forearm was torn apart, a section of it missing. All in all he should have been thankful for repair they did, the appearance of a whole hand, but three unusable fingers couldn’t cut it for an artillery recovery mechanic. Despite Felix’s insistence he could continue on, they gave him the option: accept a completed enlistment or take the medical leave. Too proud to say he left on his own terms, they ended his service with an honorable discharge.
To any passerby, Felix mostly keeps his arm covered though it is not unusual for the bare skin to be seen. A long jagged scar starts across the back of his wrist and turns over to the soft of his right forearm. The ring and small fingers cannot move at all as the tendons were destroyed in the blast. His middle finger has only half the strength it once had. Felix will subconsciously hide his arm from sight during conversation. He is not ashamed of the sight of it, nor does he see it as a blemish. Instead, he is ashamed that it is a permanent reminder of where he was once was, where his mind never left, and why he can never go back.
