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irreparable
I think the first sign, at least to my mother, was at the age of five when I broke half the bones in my right hand and did not shed a single tear. I did not even pause long enough for the pain to be considered an event. I simply carried on with my day, until she noticed the unusual swelling softening the lines of my delicate hand. She searched my face for agony - for some proof that I remained tethered to the ordinary laws of suffering. But I only watched the swelling bloom beneath my skin, with the detached curiosity of a child watching daisies open in a spring field. She stared at me then, as though she had glimpsed something standing behind my eyes: a creature that had learned to consume pain as casually as sugar dissolves on the tongue. Perhaps the fracture was indistinguishable from what I had already been taught to endure, Perhaps it was far easier to bear than the violence that lived unspoken within my mind. Or perhaps it was simpler still: I no longer found difference between agony and living. One did not interrupt the other. They had learned to coexist — indistinguishable, unremarkable, one.
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