Paraplegic (COMPLETED)

Chapter 15

I'll never walk again.

Or at least that's what I believe. I don't care what the doctors say; five percent might as well be zero. There's no coming back from an accident like this. And I don't just mean physically; emotionally, too.

The courtyard before me is scattered with different ones rushing to their next destination, each one going their separate ways to and fro without a care, without a thought; taking their freedom for granted.

I envy such people.

The rain won't stop. It's rained almost every day since Aurora's death. Even now, I sit here staring out the tall windows, watching thousands of droplets pelt the glass, gather into pools, then slide down. The sky is dark and dreary, much like my heart.

It's been nineteen days since the accident and my legs have already turned an unsightly pale color from the lack of use and blood circulation. I've worn nothing but sweatpants so as to keep them covered at all times. I can't bear to look at them. They're like a scar, ugly and decrepit looking; a vile reminder of what happened that day and everything it took from me.

The day after I decided not to kill myself, mother and father checked me into White Guard Rehabilitation Center. Pretty much all of the residents here, which is a kind way of putting it—residents, more like prisoners—are from as young as five years of age to well over sixty. It's a nice place, I guess. It could be worse. The staff here is too friendly, though. Like, annoyingly so. I was watching television in the lounge earlier and three different nurses within a ten minute time frame asked me if I wanted to change the channel, like I wasn't capable of wheeling myself over to the remote and doing it myself. Just let me watch my Downton Abbey in peace!

Upon being admitted here, I was given the option of being a permanent resident like most people are, or I could continue to live at home with the written agreement that I will visit the rehab center at appointed dates. Naturally, I chose the freedom of living at home. I have to come in three days a week for walking therapy and physical training, along with a bunch of other idiotic classes. One of these so-called "classes" teaches me how to effectively navigate using a specialized wheelchair. It's supposedly different than your average wheelchair; one designed specifically for plegics like myself. Throughout my childhood, I anxiously waited for the day when I would take drivers ed, but never once did I think that I would have to take "wheelchairs ed".

I want to scream right now!

I feel so trapped. I can't move on my own anymore. I can't get out of bed on my own. I can't go to the bathroom on my own, and I kind of have to pee right now, but I don't what to use the ostomy pouch because it's so embarrassing. It's fairly discreet looking and small in size, but I have to keep it strapped to my waist. Even yet, it's all so hard for me to process everything that's happened. It still feels like this life of mine isn't, well—mine.

I pull myself away from the windows and navigate through the cheerless hallways of this facility. This place is so brooding. No one laughs, no one smiles, other than the fake smile displayed by each staff member, and no one is happy. Understandably so, but still; it's like this place is one ongoing funeral or something.

I lazily shove my wheels in the direction of the library, avoiding eye-contact from those that pass by. Nowadays, everyone stares at me. It's like people have never seen a girl in a wheelchair before. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. I don't know. It feels like every time I lift my gaze there is someone staring back with sympathetic eyes. I don't want such treatment. It makes me feel like I'm different.

Oh, who are you kidding, McKenzie? You are different.

When I arrive at the library, I find that it's empty except for one person in the far dark corner of the room; a boy, who appears to be around the same age as me. He doesn't pay attention to my entrance, so I quietly position my wheelchair next to a bookshelf. I'm thankful for his inattentiveness; I don't feel like talking to anyone. Though, to be fair, I haven't felt like talking for a while now.

There's a book on the shelf protruding further out than those beside it, so I reach for it and open it to a random page somewhere in the middle of the book. My vision traces the first few sentences on the page. I have to keep reading them over and over because my thoughts continue to thwart my focus. I soon give up trying to read and just stare at the page, hoping that if a nurse passes by, they won't bother asking me if I need anything.

I wonder how James and Parker are coping with the loss of their daughter? I haven't been able to see them since before the accident. There hasn't been time, really. Between being confined in the hospital for two weeks and then not killing myself, an opportunity hasn't arisen for me to see them. The last time I saw them was at the cookout—that's the last time they saw their daughter alive. My heart writhes at that thought. I know very well that I'll have to face them eventually. How will they react? What will they say? Oh, I think I'm going to be sick.

Don't get yourself worked up. Breathe. Just breathe.

I shove the book towards my face with anticipation that it might soon get splattered with this morning's breakfast of oatmeal and orange juice, but the nauseous feeling quickly passes. The boy, however, looks up in concern. That's when I notice these dark sunglasses hiding his eyes. He's practically sitting in the shadows. It's kind of creepy. Who is he? And why is he wearing sunglasses in such a dimly lit room anyway? Has he been watching me from behind those shades this entire time?

After being caught in an awkward stare down, he nods his head ever so slightly, as if to answer my mental inquiry, then returns to the book in his lap. His fingers move across the page, almost like he's using them to keep track of the sentence he's reading.

That was certainly strange. Should I remain here or relocate elsewhere? If I leave the library, I'll no doubt have to find some other quiet place to hide, not that there are many in a facility like this one, and there's always the possibility that I may get hounded by more overzealous nurses. I guess my best option is to remain here and avoid further eye contact with Glasses over there.

My thoughts return to James and Parker. I can't imagine the torment they're going through right now. They probably hate me so much. I can't imagine how they don't blame me for what happened to Aurora. It's my fault. I deserve the blame.

I wonder if anyone is thinking about Aurora; anyone from school or perhaps a friend that she had in her neighborhood. She never seemed to hang out with anyone other than me, not even with any of the girls on the squad. It just seems wrong that there are so few people to mourn her death.

Tears stain the page I'm blankly staring at. I wipe them, smearing their existence over the letters.

The echo of heels clacking against the tile floor approaches from the hallway. A few seconds later, a warm hand glides across my left shoulder. "McKenzie, it's time, sweetie." I look up to see mother looming over me. She seems so tall anymore, but I know it isn't her who's changed—it's me. I feel so short curled up in this chair. Everything is beyond my reach, other than selective items that are only a couple of feet off the ground.

Mother wraps her hands around the rubber handles of this chair and guides me out of the library and into the adjoining hallway. At the end of the hallway it broadens into a large circular room where prisoners—err, residents—are being tended to. On my left, there's a little boy, who is probably no older than eight years of age, being taught how to open a door. It's a shocking sight to see both his arms gone with only two little nubs wiggling at the ends of his shoulders. My heart goes out to him. That must be a difficult handicap to live with.

I swing my head the other direction and see a woman walking with a cane in her hand; her right leg looks to be made from some sort of metal. She's kept herself in shape; her physique is well-built with broad shoulders. Former military, perhaps? That would explain the missing leg. Maybe she lost it in the line of duty

How long have these people been here? A year? Two years? Ten? I'm drowning in fear just thinking about how long someone like me could be stuck here. I might not ever make it out of this place. I could grow old here, all shriveled up, alone and unmarried, vulnerable to the memories of my past that are sure to haunt me, waiting for the day when death takes its revenge on me.

My hands are shaking and my forehead is moist. I can't allow myself to think about such things. Not now. It's too much. I throw the hoodie over my head and drop my chin to my chest, desperately trying to ignore the ambient voices around me.

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