Thorn in the West
Copyright© 2025 by Heel
Chapter 11: Pain, Practice, and Persistence
The town was quiet in the early morning, dust rising from the sun-baked streets as Mika Thorn hobbled along on her improvised crutches. Each step was agony, a reminder of the cliff’s cruel edge. Her broken leg swayed helplessly, Her shoulder throbbed with lingering pain, her lower back stiff and unyielding, and sweat clung to her hair and dust-streaked face.
The townspeople were unavoidable. Children pointed and whispered, merchants shook their heads, and a few cowhands openly chuckled as she passed.
“Look at that,” one said, voice loud enough for others to hear. “The Little Viper hopping like a ragdoll.”
Mika pressed her lips together, jaw tight, but said nothing. She could feel their eyes, their judgment, their amusement—but instead of breaking her, it fueled her determination. Every step, every grunt of effort became a test she had to pass for herself, not for them.
Her recovery began slowly. She found a quiet alley behind the livery stable and leaned against a post, testing her weight on the crutches. Step by step, she learned better balance: shifting weight from one arm to the other, learning to pivot, to twist, to move forward without jarring her broken leg. The first steps were jerky, a series of stops and stumbles, each movement sending jolts of pain up her spine. She fell more than once, cursed more than she could count, and yet forced herself to try again.
By the second day, she could cover small distances without risk of collapsing, though every step required intense focus. She practiced turning quickly, pivoting on the crutches, moving along the wooden planks of the boardwalk without losing her balance. It was slow, painstaking work, but each improvement, however small, became a victory.
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