Standing By-an Avi Kaplan fanfic

Chapter 6: Pain and Suffering

Rehabilitation is like hell.
Dr. Fischer introduces me to a woman named Dr. Young, and she puts me through so many grueling drills―first pushing myself out of the wheelchair, then grabbing onto the bars, walking back and forth down this lane, going up and down a few shallow stairs―and it kills me.
At the end of the day, I'm exhausted, overcome with pain, and in tears. "I just want to go home," I sob.
Dr. Young smiles gently. "I know, sweetie, and you can now. We just had to make sure you could move around."
She hands me a pair of crutches. "Here, use these."
I take them from her and stand up with them, clenching my teeth together as my left leg touches the ground and pain courses through it. "Thanks," I mutter through gritted teeth.
Dr. Fischer leads me back upstairs, and I say farewell to Shizuka and give her a slip of paper with all my contact information. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to talk to me," I tell her.
She takes the slip and smiles gratefully. "Okay. Thank you, again."
"Stay strong," I say.
Gran and Lorraine meet me out in the hall. Lorraine starts crying right away, and Gran gives me a very soft hug. "Sweetheart, I'm so sorry," she says, her tears dripping onto my shoulder. "I'm sorry."
I hug her back with effort. "No, it's okay. We'll figure something out," I say, my voice trembling. I don't know if I'm trying to convince her or convince myself.
We head to Dylan's room and I gasp as I see him. Stitches all over the left side of his head, bloody bandages on his cheek. Arm in a cast, with machines hooked onto him everywhere.
Lorraine buries her head in Dylan's right shoulder and sobs. "Wake up, Dyl, please wake up," she cries, and I have to look away.

Gran helps me up the stairs to the house.
"I'm fine," I insist. "I don't want you hurting yourself now too."
She lets out an exasperated breath. "No, dear, I'm quite all right. Don't worry about me."
I give up trying to argue with her and let her guide me up the stairs and into the house.
"You and I switched rooms for now," Lorraine says to me. "I brought up all your clothes and books and stuff."
"You didn't have to do that, Lor," I say. "But thank you." I stumble to the room and sit down onto the bed. The covers are nice and fluffy, and at least it's not freezing cold like the basement.
I lie down slowly and count the cracks in the ceiling. 1, 2, 3, 4...
Why does my life have to be so hard? 5, 6, 7, 8, 9...
What did I ever do to deserve this? 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16...
Will I ever be able to walk without pain? 17, 18, 19, 20...
I count the cracks over and over for hours, replaying the same thoughts.
Mom, Dad, if you're out there somewhere... Please help me, I pray silently.
I look at the large calendar on the wall. Lorraine's etched off the days past in black marker, and I see that Valentine's Day is this week―Saturday. Then it dawns on me: Dylan's right. I've never had a valentine, I've never fallen in love, haven't even had my first kiss.
Then my thoughts shift to Dylan, lying bloody and scratched on a hospital bed in a coma, machines keeping him alive. I think about Taylor, probably sitting on her bedroom floor, phone in hand, waiting for his call.
I cry until I have no more tears left to shed. I cry for Gran, Lorraine, Dylan, Taylor, Shizuka, and me. I cry for my studio, for my deceased parents, for all the other people in the world who are being held back from anything in their lives. I cry for their losses and I cry for their crushed hopes and dreams.
After I've completely drained myself of all the liquids in my body through my eyes, I roll out of the bed, off the tear-stained sheets and pillow, and hobble to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. I look at my face in the mirror and stare.
My long, auburn hair now messy and tangled, with no curls or hairspray or any other products in it. My swollen blue-grey eyes and long lashes, free of mascara, liner, or shadow. My sparse thin eyebrows, not shaped or filled in. My freckles across my nose and my pale cheeks, with no foundation and blush to cover them. My full pink lips, now chapped from the tears and the cold.
I stare at my reflection and smile. I look... Real. Authentic. Just me―not all dolled up for a camera. My true face. I like it. I like me.
I don't know how long I'm in the bathroom for, but I eventually open the door and, using the wall as support, slowly make my way back to the bedroom.