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The Broken Obsession. Part 1
The Broken Obsession
Part 1
Let me start at the very beginning… Well…Yesterday I broke my leg.
On the first day of my holidays in Europe, a truck clips me while I’m on my electric bike, and just like that, my tibia and fibula snap into pieces.
The hospital hours that follow blur together, X-rays, painkillers, realigning my broken bones and applying my cast. Then hours later, I am released into the world with this full leg cast. Non-weight bearing, the doctor says. Six to eight weeks, maybe more, on crutches.
For my first time on crutches, that’s a very long time, don’t you agree?
My cast stretches from my toes all the way up to my thigh, swallowing the beautiful and strong leg I’ve built in the gym over the years. Jennifer, the cast technician, takes her time molding this new accessory onto me. She's so so good, beautiful and with those long fingers…
The long pink shell hugs every curve of my leg, tracing it as if it were dressed in the finest pantyhose. Smooth, close, and almost beautiful in its precision. Yet beneath that perfection, it is unforgiving, locking my long leg stiff, denying me any movement and I can't put any weight on it.
My toes peek out at the end, polished in a pale pink that matches the fiberglass, soft against the stark hardness around them. At the top of my cast, my thigh shows just a little, the muscles I used to push through squats, sprints, and endless hours at the gym. Now those same muscles can’t move at all and that’s my reality for eight long weeks.
When I stand on my crutches, I feel both powerful and fragile. My left leg flexes, strong and ready, carrying me. My right is an elegant weight, pink and gleaming, swinging with each step I take on my crutches. Together, they turn me into a sight I never imagined I would ever be on crutches casted.
It’s my first time breaking any bones, and when I leave the hospital, balancing on European forearm crutches, I feel it immediately: curious and passionate eyes all over me.
It’s hard to explain, but they follow me and stare, through the parking lot, through the lobby, across the street. They don't miss the swing of my cast, the sharp sound of crutches on tile, even my toes sticking out at the end, painted pale pink to match the fiberglass.
Mostly men, yes. But I notice women too, of all ages. The way their gazes linger, I know. I am not just seen. They study my every move. Why? I’m not one hundred percent sure yet.
I tell myself it’s only curiosity. But deep down, I know it’s something else.
And now, less than twenty-four hours later, I find myself debating whether to keep my semi-blind date with Daniel. What kind of girl shows up to her first date with a badly broken leg in a fresh leg cast, on crutches, body aching, and in a confused mood?
But another part of me, the stubborn, sexy feminist, unapologetic part, thinks: why not? So I go.
I lean into my crutches, leather skirt hugging me close, my good foot balanced high on a sharp 4-inch stiletto heel (I know, I already have a broken leg, please don't judge). My right leg, stiff and helpless in its long pink cast, swings forward with every careful step. The rhythm of heel and crutches is the only soundtrack I have at the moment.
What I don’t know yet is what waits for me beyond that doorway with my blind date… and I swear, dear readers, trust me, neither do you.
Desire or danger…nobody knows but it could be both.
Part 2 to come