Skinned -1 Read Online Free Page B

doctor, smarter than he looked, obeyed. “Third-degree burns covering seventy percent of your body. That was the most immediate threat. Skin grafts are simple, of course, but in many cases infection proves fatal before we have the chance to do anything. Crush injuries to the legs and pelvis. Spinal cord abrasion. Col apsed lung. Damage to the aortic valve necessitated immediate bypass and may have required an eventual transplant. Internal bleeding. And, as far as secondary injuries, we were forced to amputate—”
    “Please,” the computer voice cut in. It was so calm.
    My father raised his eyes, waiting. Believing I was strong enough.
    Keep going, I forced myself to think. The words were in the air before I could take them back.
    “Amputate the left leg, just below the thigh. Several hours were spent trying to salvage the left arm, but it wasn’t possible.” There were two feet beneath the blanket. Two legs. I could see them. Maybe I couldn’t feel them or move them, but I knew they were there.
    Prosthetics, I realized, retreating to a part of my brain the computer couldn’t hear. They can do a lot with prosthetics. They made fake limbs that moved, that even, in some way, felt. That looked almost normal. Almost.
    The doctor had said I would walk. He just didn’t say how. He didn’t say on what.
    This can’t be happening to me.
    How could it be happening—how could it keep happening—and stil seem so unreal?
    But then how could it be real? How could I, Lia Kahn, be a one-armed, one-legged, burned, scarred, punctured lump ?
    “I need to see.”
    “See what, Lia?” my mother whispered. What did she think?
    “See. I need to see what I look like. I need a mirror.” In my head I was shouting. The voice was not.
    “That’s not advisable at this point,” the doctor said. “I only told you about your injuries so you would realize how lucky you are to be making a ful recovery. So you would understand that certain decisions were made for your own good. Some sacrifices were needed to save your life.” Some “sacrifices,” like an arm and a leg?
    “I need to see.”
    The doctor frowned. “We real y should wait until the final, cosmetic procedures have been completed. It’s il -advised at this stage to—”
    “Let her see,” said a man who hadn’t spoken yet. He stood closest to my parents, his gray suit flashing, very subtly, in time with his heartbeat. The style had been in and then very definitely out a couple years ago, but it worked for him. Although with his face—chiseled cheekbones, long-lashed brown eyes, dimpled chin, nearly-but-not-quite feminine lips—
    anything would have worked. “She’l have to find out eventual y. Why not now?”
    I was sorry I couldn’t smile at him.
    Then I reminded myself that the smile would have been bound by blistered lips, pul ed back to reveal cracked teeth, or dark empty gaps, along bloody gums. As for the blond hair I would have liked to flick over my shoulder, just quickly enough that the scent of lavender wafted out to greet him? It was probably gone. I’d smel ed it burning. My eyes were both stil there, that was obvious. At least one of my ears. But my mouth didn’t work, my nose didn’t work—Who knew whether they were intact or just sunken caverns of flesh? The pretty doctor didn’t see pretty Lia Kahn, I reminded myself. He saw the lump.
    He found a mirror.
    It was smal , about the size of a hand stretched flat, with the fingers pressed together. Framed with black plastic that maybe was supposed to be shiny but wasn’t, not anymore.
    He paused, tipped his head toward my father. “Do you want to…?”
    My father shook his head.
    So it was the pretty doctor, the kind of guy Walker would be someday if he remembered to shave and stopped flunking gen-tech, who approached, mirror in hand. He kept it angled safely away. “You ready?”
    As if it mattered. I closed my eyes.
    The computer said yes.
    They’ll fix it, I promised myself. No matter how