<P>Jerrod's own father had been one of the victims of the depression and hopelessness that pressed down on everyone; drinking and beating his wife until one day he just disappeared. Jerrod had promised himself he wouldn't follow that path. He never did drugs, never went to the slum parties that were rife with women so desperate for love that they would throw themselves at you. His mother went to church every Sunday and Wednesday, and Jerrod had followed her footsteps. The memories of heavily accented voices, shouting to God while loud drums and cymbals sounding through the air filled him. Praying for deliverance.
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<P>A sudden wash of pain washed over Jerrod's chest and sides. The medical suite had removed the shunt from his neck. He still couldn't move or feel his legs. The high-pitched whine of a laser saw filled the air.
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<P>Iris's voice seemed hesitant. "Are you angry with me?"
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<P>There was a pop, and a heavy thud. Jerrod lifted himself up on his elbows and looked to see the mangled alloy remnants of his left knee, trailing purple ichor, be dumped into a plastic bin. Jerrod glanced down to see that his lower leg was just barely connected to the rest of his body by a set of stringy tendons and blood vessels. He looked away.