Against the Universe

08 • maddie

Turns out my partner for the presentation, Erin, doesn't live too far from me, so going all the way to the library doesn't make much sense.

"Can we meet at yours? My house is a mess at the moment," I'd suggested. The renovations are complete now, but we still haven't put everything back where it belongs. The place is in desperate need of tidying. Marie Kondo style.

"We can," she'd said, "but I should warn you in advance that my parents are nudists."

So we decided to meet chez moi.

She shows up at my door 15 minutes early. Her neon green mane is in two messy space buns and she's wearing razor sharp winged eyeliner. Her whole aesthetic reminds me of those really pretty 'e-girls' you see all over TikTok and Pinterest. I tell her this, and I guess that's the look she was going for, because she beams with gratitude.

Once in my room, we waste half an hour simply choosing a PowerPoint theme and designing the title slides. My nails make a satisfying clickity clack on the keyboard as I type, courtesy of the rose gold French tips I'd got done on Saturday.

Mum used to always do my nails for me when we had girly nights in. We'd put on Mamma Mia in the background, and she'd mix up a virgin mojito for me and a G&T for herself.

But she's not here now, so instead the tiny Vietnamese lady at the salon round the corner does them instead.

"Woooah, you play?"

Erin stands by the window, admiring my music set up. She's looking at Veronica — my bass guitar — like she's the holy grail.

"I do. Any requests?"

She thinks for a minute. "Know anything by Demeter's Daughter?"

Pfft. Do I ever. "Of course!"

I cradle Veronica in my arms and begin to tune her. I love her the same way guys love their cars (albeit I realise that's a bit of a generalisation). She's my baby. I almost bawled my eyes out the first time I found a scratch on her.

I play one of the DD songs I'm most familiar with. Something changes in me when I play. I like myself more. Not that I'm particularly unhappy with myself, but when I'm strumming and making these beautiful sounds, it makes me feel beautiful too. Like I'm the cute female lead in an indie romance film. Except I'm disabled and not white, and people like me don't exist in those stories, let alone star in them.

When I finish playing, Erin looks starstruck. She starts gushing out a load of compliments, which I brush off. As you gain more experience in a craft, you become less susceptible to pride. I'm only flattered by accolades when they come from fellow musicians, like Tobias.

"You know, you're actually really cool, Maddie." Her eyes are sparkling with wonder.

"Did you think I wouldn't be?"

She laughs nervously. "That's not — I didn't mean—"

I wave my hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it."

I know she didn't mean anything bad by it. And I know what people think. I see the way they look at me, how their eyes linger a bit too long, and how they then look away, thinking it's more polite to not acknowledge my existence at all.

My presence makes them uncomfortable. I don't look like a cool person; I look like the remnant of a tragedy. I look fragile.

And so people are nice to me. Really nice. And helpful. Even when I don't need it. But they're also mindful to keep their distance.

There's that feeling again — that painful squeeze in my chest.

I miss having friends.

When I got out of the hospital, it was recommended I join a support group online. It was called Reconnected, aimed at young people suffering from paralysis, and it was run by Dr Aubrey — a camp, kind-eyed silver fox who was the loveliest man I'd ever met.