The First Discovery
The room is quiet. The air feels heavy, almost tangible, as I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, feeling the contours of my own body. Since the surgery, everything has changed. My leg, once an unquestioned part of me, is no longer there, and yet, its absence seems to create more space—space for new sensations, for new discoveries. My hand rests on my stomach, just above the place where my leg used to begin. The skin is smooth, the scar tissue feels different from the rest of my body—not less, but strangely more present. The silence is almost deafening, but deep inside, there’s a vibration, an energy I can’t ignore. The thoughts that have been swirling in my mind for some time now are impossible to dismiss. The words I once heard—acrotomophilia—have stuck with me, even when I didn’t fully understand them. The fascination with my new form seems inevitable. I lower my hand, slowly, as if afraid of what I’ll feel. When my fingers touch the edge of my stump, I close my eyes. It’s soft