Everything was a little harder, took a little more time, with only one leg.

The greater consequences to her life had only gradually materialized as her routine had changed according to her disability. Home had suddenly become an obstacle to navigate, a constant reminder of what she had lost, rather than the safe and comforting space it had been before. She had been young when her leg had been taken, but not too young that she couldn’t remember what it was like before its absence.

She remembered only a little of the first morning without her leg. Her memory from the time was patchy at best, she just remembered the whiteness of her bedsheets, stretching out over her legs, only one side was flatter than the other. Then, the feeling of her whole world shifting, like the universe held its breath, like gravity had been ripped out from under her as she peeled back the sheet.

The depression had kept her in bed and despondent for frequent spans of time, unable to even mourn her loss, too exhausted by the sheer weight of her grief and desolation. Numb. And when she came out of it she’d have to fight the fear. Fear of strangers, of her family, constantly questioning who would betray her next, constantly on guard to the degree that the tension caused her body to ache. Guessing whose smile concealed malevolent intentions. It was debilitating. Debilitating and so completely isolating. She could feel the yearning for connection, for inclusion underneath the numbness, but was too terrified to act on it.

She had been different enough before its loss, with her milk white curls and skin, and nystagmus eyes a striking violet. Oculocutaneous albinism, the midwife had declared, at her birth. She was a stark contrast when surrounded by the dark hair and skin of her family, and perhaps the conspicuousness had contributed to her discovery by cultists of Zsa Zsa, the piebald deer witch-god.

Their incredulous belief that those with albinism had’ bones full of gold, that their limbs could be sacrificed to Zsa Zsa, bringing riches and good fortune, and success in all aspects of life had led them to kidnap her. Stealing her right out of her bed at night.

Ceit’s sister Luth had been the one to sound the alarm, coming back from the bathroom and seeing her empty bed, the wind blowing through her window.

Her family had been unforgiving and vicious in their vengenous. Even after finding out her nineteen year old uncle Aelie had been involved. They had tried to shield her from the fall out, but she had still known. She could see the anguish, the betrayal, the guilt, in their faces when his name came up. It had hurt so so much, to know that someone she loved had decided that her life was worth so little, had been outweighed by just the promise of wealth. She could feel her heart twist in her chest, the stirrings of nausea, and the burning of tears in her eyes, whenever she thought about him.

She still dreamed about him. Fond dreams that featured the cocky smile he had always worn, only sinister after she had learned about his betrayal. And about his laughter, the way he fondly teased her and ruffled her curls, before nightmares turned his fingers into claws that sunk through her skin and pulled at her bones, greedy for the gold they allegedly had.

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She had a wheelchair at first. It made the loss of her leg all the more acute. A whole piece of her was missing. She had gotten used to it, but not the way people treated her, like she couldn’t do anything on her own, like they were embarrassed to see her chair, to acknowledge both it and her. She had dreaded the questions people outside her family would ask, didn’t want the most interesting thing about her to be why she was in one. She had been used to stares and questions before, her albinism a fascination to people who weren’t familiar with her, and the hovering of those that were, worried about her faulty vision. The chair drove it to the next level, a near constant, stifling concern and a well meaning but misplaced overcompensation of attention.

She had truly appreciated the mobility the chair gave her, how much easier she could maneuver than with crutches. But depending on others had made her dispirited, it was only with the perspective of having a prosthetic that she had really perked her up. The promise of getting her autonomy back. The symmetry of her relationships, restored. The time waiting for her new leg to be ready had felt like limbo. Waiting and waiting, in a void where time stood still and her life was in standby, on hold until she could be there to live it.

The days once it was ready were a blur of surgery and physiotherapy. Surgeons and nurses shaping her leg, smoothing out the mangled bone and removing damaged tissue to fit her prosthetic. Tight compression socks to reduce the swelling. Exercises for wound healing, for strengthening the other muscles she would now have to rely on. Learning how to redistribute her weight, how to walk. Learning her body all over again.

She could still feel it sometimes. Her missing limb. It wasn’t always painful, she could roll her missing ankle, feel her absent toes wiggle. It was even nice sometimes, feeling phantom sensations from her missing leg. Like it wasn’t missing. The pain though, was excruciating. Like a fire was warming her from beneath her foot, until it heated up, searing hot, burning sometimes for hours on end.

She had been grateful at first, the how supportive and helpful her family had been, in the early days. They had helped her with every action no matter how small. The forced dependency began to feel suffocating after the first month. She was like a spectator to her own life, forced to watch and be grateful for their every unwanted supporting action. Passive. Inferior.

It was why she worked so hard on the farm after she had received her prosthetic. Ceit wanted, needed, to prove to her family, to herself, that she could be more than just a burden. So she wouldn’t be reduced to just an amputee, someone to be pitied and patronized.

Her great uncle Allegre had been a great help. He had lost his own foot years before in a farm equipment accident, but it hadn’t even slowed him down. The comradery had helped, reminded her that she wasn’t the only one, that someone else had gone through something similar and not been immobilized.

He had been there for her, stable and upbeat when she was left behind by her cousins, unable to join in. When the excessive attention she received from her parents soured her relationship with her sister Luth. When she felt so lonely and isolated she didn’t want to exist.

She had been so close with Luth before. They were only a year apart in age, much closer than the eleven year age gap with their baby brother. At first she hadn’t noticed the distance. Her life was consumed with trying to reconnect with her body, trying to make it feel like her own body again, instead of this strange unwieldy machine that she needed to force into submission.

She still remembered with keen detail the horror on Luth’s face when she had first seen her without her leg. She had known that it was just in response to the mutilation, but it had very much felt like Luth was horrified by her, like she was some sort of horrible monster.

The aching loss of her relationship with Luth left a hole in her heart that even Allegre couldn’t entirely fill. But he had motivated her to try and find new meaning, to reconcile herself with the change in her life and move forward. With him, every obstacle overcome was an important victory to be celebrated. It was inspiriting. With him she could rebuff the alienation, the marginalization, the passivity. With him she was not a victim, but a victor.