Nobody sat anywhere near me.
The smell of my recent surgery disgusted them, although most hid it well. Other passengers in my train carriage caught the nasty whiff on approach, noticed my missing leg, and veered away at the last minute, ignoring my prime spot in the train carriage. They'd rather cram together like sardines further along the carriage than take up one of three empty seats around my table.
They could smell my anesthesia, but I didn't care enough about their opinions to explain that I'd discharged myself from the hospital five days after surgery, much to the chagrin of my doctor and commanding officer, Colonel Asshat.
I smiled inwardly, pleased when the train conductor hurriedly stamped my ticket while moving swiftly by. He wanted to say something to me, but the horror of seeing a uniformed female soldier amputee blazed in his eyes. At first, he shifted from one leg to the other awkwardly, then looked ashamed of himself before scurrying away so that he might feel better, regardless of how that impacted me.
As it was, I didn't much care, figuring the only people interested in me would be battlefield ghouls or other varietal weirdos.
Being shunned or stared at like a freak seemed a fairly normal response for someone sitting opposite a recent cripple, especially one who was bitter about it. My expression and general demeanor, minus a leg, spoke to a deep-rooted sense of injustice, although that was probably putting it somewhat lightly.
I was totally fucked off with my life and wanted to burn the world down.
"Hi, can I sit here, please?"
No... fuck off.
"Of course, there are three empty seats."
"I'm Daniel."
"Why?"
He looked confused, blinked, and thought quickly for a response that sounded like a question.
"Because my mom liked the name?"
"No... I meant why sit here with me? I'm curious."
No, I'm not. I'm circling above you like an eagle with talons raised, searching for prey.
He waved nonchalantly at the spare seats around me, then at the rest of a cramped compartment.
"You've got the best spot, and I'd give an arm or a leg to be comfortable over the next five hours."
I don't believe you just fucking said that wanker.
"I don't believe you just said that, Daniel."
"Sorry, I thought you might find it funny."
I laughed inwardly because it was a hilarious, albeit absurd quip that appealed to my graveyard sense of humor. When I studied him carefully, not wishing to say anything that couldn't be walked back, I enjoyed the cheeky grin and sparkle in his eyes.
Daniel was around my age, very good-looking, and exactly the sort of guy I might have dated before losing around ten percent of my body to a Taliban booby trap.
"You've got some balls, Daniel."
"For cracking the joke? Maybe... but for sitting opposite a beautiful war hero, forcing an inward smile and great conversation out of her... that took courage."
"War hero? How would you know that?"
"I noticed the circular outline of a Medal of Honor in your lower left jacket pocket. I can tell by its size and the folded neck ribbon. You took it off so that nobody would see it and because you don't want to engage anyone in conversation."
"And yet, here you are, Daniel. Talking freely to me."
I wafted my hand towards him, smiling because I was genuinely impressed.
"And here you are, Ella. Delightfully engaged by my conversation."
I smiled again, then glanced up and saw my name written on a luggage tag attached to my small holdall.
"You're very observant. CIA?"
"Nope, I'm an airline pilot and used to seeing thousands of name tags on luggage."
