Different, Not Damaged Read online

  Different, Not Damaged

  Acknowledgements

  There are a lot of people who I have to thank for helping me with this endeavor: Rusty, Lavern, Garrison, Crystal, Mandy, Mark, Aletia and Josh, Joshua, Ashley, Tiffany, Sandy, Stacy, Raven, Jessica, Sara-Jean, Angie, Kathy, and many others.

  Each of these people has infused a part of themselves into this book by allowing me to write their stories or the stories of their loved ones. They provided me with real-life information on what it means to live with a disorder or care for someone with the disabilities in this book. I can only hope I showed them the respect and gratitude they deserve by doing these stories justice.

  Foreword

  In 2013, I was diagnosed with Asperger syndrome, an Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD).

  According to Autism Speaks , "Affected children and adults (with Asperger) have difficulty with social interactions and exhibit a restricted range of interests and/or repetitive behaviors."

  The National Autistic Society says, "Some people with Asperger syndrome say the world feels overwhelming and this can cause them considerable anxiety.

  In particular, understanding and relating to other people, and taking part in everyday family, school, work and social life, can be harder. Other people appear to know, intuitively, how to communicate and interact with each other, yet can also struggle to build rapport with people with Asperger syndrome. People with Asperger syndrome may wonder why they are 'different' and feel their social differences mean people don’t understand them."

  I'd always known I was different, an outsider my whole life, but I never understood why. Perhaps it was my personality, or maybe I wasn't "good enough". With this diagnosis, suddenly everything made sense!

  I wasn't the problem. It's not that I have a jarring personality or am unlikable (at least I hope not!). My atypical neurological development is the reason I felt like a "stranger in a strange land".

  In my efforts to learn more about my disorder, I found myself drawn into the fascinating world of psychological, mental, emotional, and physical disorders. The more I researched, the more I discovered that the human body, brain, and psyche can be a greater enemy than any external threat.

  When your memories are fading (Alzheimer's), your life feels hopeless (depression), or you're hearing things that aren't there (auditory hallucinations resulting from a broad range of mental disorders), you may feel like you are a hostage in your own body.

  Here's a scary statistic:

  A 2017 study found that just 17% of adults did NOT meet any criteria for psychiatric disorders over a 35-year period. That means 83% of adults will develop psychiatric conditions at some point in their lives. Add to that chronic health problems, and you have a staggering number of people living with an impairment of mind or body.

  I refuse to give in to both the social and perceived self-stigma of living with a mental disorder. I believe that my Asperger syndrome is an important part of what makes me who I am—I'm going to focus on the good and live with the bad.

  That's the purpose of this collection of stories: to showcase physical, emotional, mental, and neurological disorders through a fantasy lens and bring them to light. By reading these short stories, you can understand more about what it means to live with these disabilities.

  Everything in this book is real. Sure, the stories are fantastical (it's fantasy, after all!), but the emotions, the feelings, the impairments and limitations are all based on the experiences of real life people. They've allowed me to use their stories to showcase what it means to live with disorders: our bodies, minds, or psyches may not be the same as you, but that only makes us different, not damaged.

  Strength and Courage

  The light from the crackling fire glinted off the needle in Dahvynd’s left hand. The pitiful warmth of the flame failed to drive the chill from the mangled remains of what had once been his right. Winters hit Voramis hard; this year harder than most.

  Dahvynd shifted his chair closer to the hearth and squinted down at the dress. He had to finish the ruched bodice before sunset. Mistress Alahnah's servant would be by before closing; the Merchant Guildmaster's wife insisted her dress be ready for the Midwinter Revelries—gathered skirts, ornate silver filigree, passementerie, and all. Swordsman knew how long the embroidery would take him.

  But he didn't mind. Those intricate patterns kept the memories at bay.

  He held up the garment with a critical eye and sighed. I'll have to deal with those wobbly stitches. He contemplated adding another log to the fire. He'd need more fuel as the nights grew longer, but he couldn't buy more until he finished the dress. There'll be enough hours tomorrow.

  Replacing the needle in the pincushion, Dahvynd set the dress on the counter, careful not to wrinkle the delicate lace and linen. He stood with a groan. Hauling his Legionnaire's pack for leagues through waist-deep snow hadn't caused half the pain that came from a day spent hunched over his work.

  He rubbed his eyes. Keep this up much longer and I'll need those damned spectacles Killia was always on about.

  His thumb traced the silver band on his right wrist. He'd never learned his letters, but Killia had told him the meaning of the words etched there. "Strength and Courage." The motto of Voramis' Legion of Heroes.

  Dahvynd tugged the leather glove over his stiff, twisted right hand. People stared less when he wore it. He only removed it to sew.

  He squeezed his broad shoulders through the cluttered shop—it needed tidying up, but Killia had always handled the cleaning—slipped into his heavy cloak, and gathered up the pile of tunics and dresses on the counter. Tucking them under his right arm, he fumbled in his pocket for the key.

  The bit of metal looked so small in his huge fingers, stiff from scars and the winter chill. Watcher take this cold!

  Two doors down, a faded sign proclaimed “Master Willem's Fine Haberdashery”. Seamstress Seraphina looked up as the bell tinkled, and smiled at Dahvynd. "More for me?"

  Dahvynd nodded and placed the clothing on the cluttered, worn oak table.

  Seraphina examined the pile. "Just the stitches ripped, then? Sure you can handle them buttons? Mite tricky, they are."

  "I'll manage." Dahvynd's smile grew tight.

  The seamstress followed his gaze, then quickly tucked the seam ripper out of sight.

  Dahvynd clenched his fist to hide its tremble. "See you tomorrow, Seraphina." The bell gave an angry jangle as he pushed through the door.

  A ragged thread of memory tugged on his mind. An old ache thrummed in his side as he fought back the image of a knife slicing through stitches sewn into his flesh.

  Easy. The icy air helped to clear his head. Stuffing his left hand into its mitten, he pulled his cloak tighter as he trudged through the streets of Merchant's Quarter. His Legion-issue boots kept out the damp, but cold seeped into his toes.

  He smiled as he caught a glimpse of the endless blue sea fading into the night. Killia had loved the oceanwalk. Salt spray, the stiff breeze rolling in with the waves, and the sea lilies that bloomed along the shore. Their small cove hidden by the massive smithies. He couldn't go there, not anymore.

  The clangor of hammer on metal sent a tremor through his hands. They should be closed by now.

  Heat washed over him. For a moment, the city of Voramis faded from view, and Dahvynd stood on that hilltop from long ago. The clash of steel almost drowned out the screams. Almost.

  Blinking furiously, he hurried down a side street—away from the smiths and steel mills along the quay. The detour added a half-hour to his journey, but he had to escape the sound. A dull ache slowly seeped into his right hand as the tremor stilled.

  The neat rows of shops grew more disordered as the streets led toward the Beggar's Qu
arter. The snow crunching under Dahvynd's feet turned a sickening grey-brown, and the smells of refuse and decay grew stronger. If only the snow would fall heavier and cover the garbage, animal carcasses, and gods-knew-what-else piled high along the streets.

  Dahvynd fought down the acid in his stomach. Were those the screams of wounded and dying men he heard on the wind? Once again, his boots squelched through mud thick with the blood of his comrades. The heaped detritus disappeared, replaced by earthen mounds he knew held the torn flesh and shattered bones of his fallen friends.

  He blinked, his heart racing, his breath coming faster. His mittened left hand sought the cold band of metal clasped around his right wrist. Strength and courage. He clung to those words as he bit down on the surge of adrenaline.

  "Oi, Dahvynd!"

  For a moment, he thought the familiar voice another phantom of his past.

  The call came again. "Where ye off to in such a rush, Dahvynd?"

  Dahvynd peeked out from under his hood. Two men huddled in a building with far too many holes to provide proper shelter. A pathetic fire crackled between them, fed by whatever scraps they found in the heaped debris.

  "Sorrin, Layrie."

  "Might ye join us for a drink?" Sorrin, a rat-faced, bald-headed man, held out a bottle. Judging by the redness of his bulbous, pitted nose, he'd imbibed far more than his share of whatever foul agor he'd found.

  Dahvynd shook his head. "Can't. Mistress Alahnah's expectin' her dress sooner rather than later."

  "Dahvynd the tailor, servicing the high and mighty." Layrie turned his too-long nose in the air with a pretentious sniff. "Might be ye’ll no longer have time for us little folk."

  "Perhaps," Dahvynd said, forcing a grin, "'specially if you keep smellin' like you just stepped out of the Keeper's own arsehole every day."

  Sorrin howled and slapped Layrie's back. Layrie bared yellowing teeth in a grin. "S'fair enough." He poked a finger into Sorrin's ribs. "Though I've seen yer Anna holding her nose every time ye come crawling into her bed, Sor."

  Dahvynd raised an eyebrow. "What were you doin’ in Sorrin's bed?"

  Layrie and Sorrin cackled, and Dahvynd grinned.

  "I'm off. Tell young Karrl to come by the shop day after tomorrow. I'll have some errands for him."

  "Aye, I'll do that," Sorrin said. "Keep him out of trouble. Damned boy's got twelve fingers, the way things 'find' their way into his pocket!"

  "Might be Layrie's Jak is a bad'n to hang around," Dahvynd said with a grin.

  "My boy's all thumbs, I tell ye." Layrie sneered. "Couldn't pick a pocket if'n his life depended on it."

  "Long as they keep their hands out of my till, I'll find jobs for 'em."

  "Anna'll thank ye for that." Sorrin gave a grateful nod. "Keeps him out from underfoot. Prob'ly the only reason she ain't wrung his scrawny neck yet."

  "S'truth!" Layrie took a swig and held out the agor. "Sure ye don't want a nip?"

  Dahvynd studied the bottle. He'd spent more than his share of time at the bottom of all manner of glasses, tankards, and wineskins. Until Killia, at least.

  "Not tonight. Mistress knows I need it in this damned cold, but it's bloody hard to get those stitches right with a poundin’ head. Next time."

  "'Night, then."

  With a nod, Dahvynd continued his trek home. His detour through the Beggar's Quarter might not be the most pleasant, but he'd come to enjoy it. Save for the smells, of course. The banter with Layrie and Sorrin reminded him of the friends he'd left behind in the Legion. Too many friends he'd never see again. The thought stole the smile from his face.

  Pulling up his hood against the cold, he picked up his pace. He had no desire to stumble through the streets of Lower Voramis after dark. Not after the grumblings and terrified whispers he'd heard about the new gang trying to make its mark on the city.

  What manner of fool name's the “Bloody Hand” anyway? He'd avoided the bull-necked thugs roaming Merchant's Quarter thus far, but he didn't—

  He stopped dead in his tracks, a dagger of ice piercing his heart. It can't be! Blinking, Dahvynd squinted up the street. He should be on the other side of the Frozen Sea!

  The street was empty. Surely the near-darkness had played tricks with his eyes. He couldn't have caught a glimpse of the familiar angular features, narrow shoulders, and blazing red hair of Indar, Private First Class, 2nd Platoon, 1st Shield Company, Green Battalion. The man who'd guarded his left on Hangman's Hill. Indar had been wounded in the same battle that took Sergeant Gardner, Corporal Garvey, and the rest of 2nd Platoon.

  Shivering, Dahvynd hurried up the street that led home. The last rays of daylight faded as he pushed through his front door. The bracing wind couldn't compare to the icy chill of the bare, darkened room that greeted him. Home had grown so uninhabited, so silent since Killia's passing.

  He hung coat, scarf, and woolen cap on the wooden pegs he'd installed at his wife's insistence. One for each member of our family, she told me. Those pegs won't ever be used for little clothes now. It's just me.

  He shivered. The icy islands across the Frozen Sea had never felt this cold. Tavern brawls, willing camp followers, and latrine duty gave the Legionnaires plenty to keep warm. He'd never been this alone, either.

  Dahvynd slumped into his chair and pulled the heavy blanket over his legs. The four-poster bed upstairs seemed too spacious, too empty without her warmth beside him. He hadn't slept in his bed—their bed—for so long the overstuffed armchair had grown more comfortable. Years spent in the Legion of Heroes had taught him to sleep whenever and wherever. The chair served as refuge when the dreams—those horrible, twisted versions of reality that refused to leave him alone—grew too much to handle.

  No matter how many times he'd fallen asleep down here, Killia had come for him. He would wake to her smile, undimmed despite her exhaustion. Not even her pain at his suffering could quench the humor, the sparkle in her bright eyes.

  The Spotted Flux had. Forever. He'd sat beside her bed, clutching her hand like a drowning man clung to driftwood. He hadn't bothered the Thirteen with pleas for Killia's life. He'd used up all his prayers as he watched his fellow Legionnaires meet the gods at the end of a spear, axe, or a surgeon's saw. The gods hadn't bothered to listen.

  The midnight ringing of the Lady's Bell had found Dahvynd sitting alone with the cold, pale husk of what had once been the most beautiful woman he'd known. The memories had taken him then. He no longer sat in the humble tailor's house. Once again, he knelt in the mud of Hangman's Hill and clutched the hand of Corporal Alven Traynor. The man who'd guarded his back for five long, cold months coughed around the haft of the spear buried in his guts. Dahvynd hadn't wiped the spray of blood from his face until the coughing—and Alven—had fallen still.

  Dahvynd glanced at the remains of what had once been Killia's sewing table and chair. Splinters, nothing more. Shards of ceramic, glass, and clay pottery littered the floor beside them. The wounds on the back of his left hand had healed long ago, but he hadn't cleaned up the mess. He couldn't ever remember doing it. All he knew was that he'd stood in the shield wall on Hangman's Hill and faced the howling Slaveic hordes. The fragments of his life had suffered the same fate as the barbarians he'd slaughtered with his comrades.

  He didn't bother trying to light a fire, cook a meal. The Legionnaire's dinner—hard bread and cheese—would suffice. No ale or wine, though. Not after last time. The memories had overcome his drink-muddled mind and frozen his body. He'd lain in the muddy alley, helpless, body twitching, eyes open, aware of everything around him but immobile as if encased in solid ice.

  His eyes closed, as much to block out the world as from the fatigue of a day's work. Fine embroidery kept his mind occupied only while he held the needle. When night fell and he sat alone at home, the past returned.

  Dahvynd forced his breathing to a steady rhythm in the vain hope his pounding heartbeat would slow. If he didn't fall asleep soon, the clash of steel, the screams of the dying and wounded, and t
he smell of death would keep rest forever out of reach.

  * * *

  The remnants of last night's snowfall squelched under Dahvynd's heavy boots. The rising sun had driven back the chill and turned the lanes of the Merchant's Quarter into a mess of puddles, rivulets, and muddy tracks.

  Seraphina stood outside his shop, a bundle clasped in her arms. "There you are! And here's me worrying you'd overslept."

  Dahvynd forced a smile. He hadn't overslept, or slept a whole night through, in more than a decade.

  The seamstress thrust the bundle toward him. "All nicely ripped, just like you asked."

  "Thank you." He fumbled in his pocket for the key. "I'll send Karrl 'round soon as he shows."

  Seraphina waved him away. "You're good for it, I know." With a smile, she picked her way back up the muddy street toward her haberdashery.

  Dahvynd watched her go, couldn't help himself. Seraphina's beauty entranced him. Not like his Killia, but…

  He brushed the thought aside. No sense in that kind of thinking. She bore burden enough caring for her own three children.

  For a moment, Dahvynd stood on the stoop, content to bask in the sunlight and feel the warmth on his face. Wagons rumbled up the muddy streets, splashing bundled pedestrians. Daylight made even the mud-spattered shops of the Merchant's Quarter seem brighter.

  Taking one last breath of the bracing air, Dahvynd unlocked the door and stepped inside the stuffy tailor's shop. After starting the fire, he shed hat, scarf, and cloak, then fumbled at the bright ribbon Seraphina liked to use to hold her bundles tight. One by one, he held up the items and studied them with a critical eye.

  Seraphina did good work with the seams. She ripped neatly, never so much as slicing a delicate thread of lace. She was certainly far more delicate than the Legion's surgeons.

  The skills that had saved Dahvynd's life—and those of countless comrades—provided him a way to earn a living after his discharge. Similar stitches, mostly, though lace and linen were more delicate than flesh. Less messy, too, and easier to do with one hand.