Relax and Write, prt 5 - Jean Beringer
Jean Beringer arched her back as deeply as she possibly could. She brought her shoulder blades together and opened her chest forward. It was difficult to keep her face soft, relaxed, as the stiff, long-unused muscles throughout her body protested the motions that she used to do several times a day. Her heart was a little heavy as she began to realize how far she had fallen; how much she had lost. The accident had taken months from her, perhaps even years in the long run, but it would take nothing more.
She'd decided that minutes ago. This was her comeback to badass.
Jean rolled her shoulders a few times, trying to loosen them up. Then she brought her hands up over her head. Her expression slipped. She immediately schooled it back into a neutral state. With a soft huff, she blew aside a few platinum strands of hair that had already crawled loose from her ponytail and fallen across her face, then blinked her eyes open to gaze at her right arm.
Her reflection gazed back at her from it's specular metal surface. She held her own gaze for only a moment, then folded forward to bring her hands to the floor.
According to her very capable doctors, whom had saved her life and she trusted implicitly, the new arm didn’t weigh any more than her actual flesh, blood and bone should have. It felt like it, though. Every motion was as graceful and smooth as she could have wanted, and she could see that. Her body, however, told her that it was clunky and wrong.
‘What do you mean by that?’ the others would ask.
‘You’re contradicting yourself,’ she had heard a million times.
‘Jean, it can’t be perfect and wrong.’
“Yes it can,” she grumbled aloud unashamedly to the otherwise empty gym as she kicked her feet back and caught herself in a plank. “Yes. It. Fuckin’. Can.”
She'd decided that minutes ago. This was her comeback to badass.
Jean rolled her shoulders a few times, trying to loosen them up. Then she brought her hands up over her head. Her expression slipped. She immediately schooled it back into a neutral state. With a soft huff, she blew aside a few platinum strands of hair that had already crawled loose from her ponytail and fallen across her face, then blinked her eyes open to gaze at her right arm.
Her reflection gazed back at her from it's specular metal surface. She held her own gaze for only a moment, then folded forward to bring her hands to the floor.
According to her very capable doctors, whom had saved her life and she trusted implicitly, the new arm didn’t weigh any more than her actual flesh, blood and bone should have. It felt like it, though. Every motion was as graceful and smooth as she could have wanted, and she could see that. Her body, however, told her that it was clunky and wrong.
‘What do you mean by that?’ the others would ask.
‘You’re contradicting yourself,’ she had heard a million times.
‘Jean, it can’t be perfect and wrong.’
“Yes it can,” she grumbled aloud unashamedly to the otherwise empty gym as she kicked her feet back and caught herself in a plank. “Yes. It. Fuckin’. Can.”