My name is Erin Murphy. I am thirty-six years old. I am 5'5" Brown and Brown per my (Colorado) driver's license. Until it exploded, I lived at 3135 N Julian St., Denver, a small brick bungalow that I was paying exorbitant rent to stay in and an even more exorbitant pet deposit--neither of which I could really afford on my military disability and Social Security, but were better than my current dilemma of homelessness.
I served with distinction as a medic in various conflicts from the time I had enlisted bright and early on my eighteenth birthday until injured in the line of duty. I am right handed-which is good, since it was my left arm that was damaged. I have a prosthesis from the middle of my left forearm down. It works well, but it will never be a "hand" to me. It's a machine. A useful tool. It's not a part of me, and it sure as hell doesn't replace what I lost.
And yes, now, that you mention it. I do have just a teenie weenie bit of bitterness about that. But only a little. I could have died. Hell, I probably *should* have. I owe my life to a man from my unit who got me the hell out of that mess, and into the middle of this one.
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