September 2013

“Above all, I craved to seize the whole essence, in the confines of one single photograph, of some situation that was in the process of unrolling itself before my eyes.” -Henri Cartier-Bresson

In exactly 500 words, what is happening here?

Michael Lejeune says:

I even have the right name!

Vincent Vroman.

The first and last names both start with the same letter. I googled it. It’s called alliteration. Peter Parker. Reed Richards. Wade Wilson. It’s catchy, right? Rolls right off the tongue.

I just have to figure out how to use it now. The power, I mean.

My power.

I could be a superhero! Fighting…crime? Or maybe just helping people out. I dunno. I haven’t decided.
OR I could be a supervillain. Vincent Vroman could easily be a supervillain’s name.

I guess I should explain a bit. If this is to be my official journal, which it probably will. One day I’ll give it to a reporter I dig, and she’ll run a story on me, and like, think about me when I’m out…being amazing.

So, when I was nine, I got my finger crushed in a door when it was slammed shut. Pinched the meat of my left index finger right down to the bone from the knuckle to near the nail. I barely remember the pain. Mostly I just remember crying. I was screaming all the way to the hospital. I remember seeing everyone looking at me when they rushed me into the Emergency Room.

They had to amputate it, said it was too far gone to try to re-attach it. I remember feeling like my life was over. I was forever going to be a freak. I didn’t know. I was nine.

But I didn’t have to deal with being fingerless for long.

It grew back.

Weirdest thing. Right? One day, everyone will know that story. The day when Vincent Vroman first knew something was special about him. The day they pulled the bandage off and there was a bud of a new finger growing under there.

The doctor said it was rare but not unheard of. I was in awe. So were Mom and Dad. And that was that.

Until four months ago.

The car accident took my left leg. Fucking drunk driver. Oh, um…scratch that. Better stop using that kind of language if I’m going to earn respect, right? Yeah so, the idiot t-boned my Buick, and locked my leg into a vise between the door, the dash, and my seat. They had to take the leg off. I never even thought about the finger through the whole ordeal. Just the pain, and the sickness and depression that followed. I was gonna be a cripple, rest of my life.

BUT! It grew back. I mean, it’s growing back now. Looks a little like a baby’s leg. I can move it, but it isn’t strong yet. And of course it’s not long enough to use. I have to hide while it grows back. Good thing I’m on disability for now. If I leave my apartment with this baby limb hanging off of me, oh god that’d be embarrassing.

So anyway, now you know my history. The story of Vincent Vroman. The legacy of…

The Regenerator.

Snappy, right? Hell yeah.

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