Missionary of Steel by Jeffrey Gamett & James B. Gamett

Author:Jeffrey Gamett & James B. Gamett [Gamett, Jeffrey & Gamett, James B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: fantasy, inspirational, religious, superheroes
ISBN: 9781492169604
Amazon: 1492169609
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
Published: 2013-11-13T00:00:00+00:00

April 6

The toothbrush felt like a heavy lead pipe in my hand. It resisted my futile attempts to lift it up and brush away the sour taste in my mouth. It slipped from my fingers and bounced back and forth on the white tile floor. When this happened, I slammed my fist into the sink in frustration, only to be reminded of my delicate condition by the throbbing pain in my bones.

So this was what it felt like to be sick.

I almost preferred death. At least then I had hope the pain would end. Now I was in recovery and enduring rehabilitation with a team of doctors who had no idea what was wrong with me.

I turned on the faucet and splashed a hand full of water into my face. As it ran down my cheeks, leaving streaks of long black hair clinging to my forehead, I looked into the mirror and gasped.

I barely recognized my own face.

Pale white skin clashed with my dark sunken eyes, making me look like an anorexic drug abuser, only sicker. This was a big change from what I used to see in the mirror.

Normally, I had the body of a Nephite warrior from one of those Book of Mormon paintings. With bulging muscles that most people didn’t know existed, I was the spitting image of Captain Moroni hoisting the Title of Liberty, or Ammon defending his flocks.

Now my body was that of a chemotherapy patient. With toothpick arms, and a small hallow chest. I wasn’t even a shell of my former self. I was a shade.

Weakly, I turned my head back towards the nurse standing in the bathroom’s doorway and waved for him to come closer.

“I’m done,” I said.

The nurse (a young man who looked like one of those male cheerleaders that could hoist a girl up with one hand) came into the bathroom and gently grabbed the handlebars to my wheel chair. After pulling me back to my bed, he wrapped his fingers completely around what was left of my bicep, and lifted me on the sheets. When my head made contact with the pillow, I let out a loud sigh and pondered on how old people must feel in retirement homes. Haunted by memories of formerly strong bodies, but trapped in a more fragile state than the mind believed it to be.

“How’s he doing?” Elder Knight asked from the door to my room. The male nurse finished pulling the bed sheets over my body before flashing the thumbs up sign.

I tried to lift my arm in the air and give the same sign, but gave up when I failed to free it from the tubes that tangled around my bed like a spider-web.

“I see,” Knight nodded for the male nurse to leave. He took a seat by my bed and folded his arms.

“I think I’m getting worse,” I said once the nurse was gone. “Yesterday I didn’t need anyone’s assistance to go to the bathroom. Now I need to ring for help every hour.

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