That conscious feeling whenever someone even mentioned my arms cane back, the one of cold water surrounding them and my throat and chest, threatening to strangle. It was my weakness, my defining trait that stood me out from others, and whenever I wasn't conscious to nausousness, it was a drifting dissociation keeping me from picking at my own flaws, most of my older years so far spent in that way, self-identity never actualized.

And then asked why my face looked so doubtful, blaming it on the tenseness, the nervousness. I was never a nervous wreck, but it was a good excuse, the reassurance given, and then asked what was with the dirt on my face. Blank thoughts again, oh, to explain the situation at claw, but nothing was asked, and thrown at me was a cloth to wipe it off.

Upon that further look at the one in front, with a jacket of medals, some in that standard silver, two in royal blue -- special. This person's special.