DARREN

I throw my head back. It’s heavy. Nearing explosion.

The sterile hum of the lab fills the room like a constant, low-grade headache. Here again to get reminded of my plight.

The fluorescent lights buzzing overhead don’t help my condition, casting everything in that cold, clinical white that makes every scar on my body stand out sharper.

I sit on the padded table in the center of the room, with shirt off, the old prosthetic already detached and resting on a metal tray like a ...