Watchmaker
Copyright© 2025 by Heel
Chapter 3: The Balance
She learned quickly that crutches were not instruments of freedom, but of humiliation.
They clicked against the hospital floor with every step — a small, insistent rhythm that drew glances she didn’t want. The motion was nothing like dance; there was no grace, no timing, only calculation and fatigue. Each hallway felt twice as long as before.
By the third day, her hands had begun to blister where the grips rubbed against her palms. The muscles in her arms ached from the effort of lifting her own weight. Her good leg trembled after only a few minutes of standing. Still, she refused to call for help when the nurses offered it.
Dr. Kopp watched her from a distance sometimes — not intervening, just observing. She could sense his eyes following the awkward sway of the crutches, the uneven rhythm of her progress. He said nothing unless she asked, and even then, his answers were clinical, detached. It infuriated her — and yet, she needed his steadiness.
When she was discharged to outpatient therapy, her colleagues came to visit. Dancers, all of them — young, upright, impossibly poised even when standing still. Their visit should have been comforting. Instead, it was unbearable.
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