Paraplegic (COMPLETED)

Chapter 17

Class is worst than I expected. Though, to be honest, I'm not really sure what I was expecting. I've always been so independent; having that stripped from me is something I'm struggling to get used to.

Right now, I'm taking a water break from my pulldown exercises. Apparently, having a strong upper body is crucial when suffering from paraplegia. It makes sense, I guess. I just never really gave it much thought before. I never had a reason to until now.

My personal trainer, Desiree, told me that if I get strong enough I'll be able to perform activities such as getting in and out of bed independently, climbing into my chair from a floor position, and maneuvering in my chair without experiencing chronic fatigue, as well as other basic activities. It almost feels foolish to start thinking about such possibilities; I'm worlds away from being able to achieve any of those now.

"Alright, McKenzie, break's over." Desiree jogs over to me and snatches the water bottle away from my cracked lips. When Desiree first introduced herself to me earlier this morning, she said she was originally from the Czech Republic, not that I hadn't already gathered that from her strong European accent. She's this short, yet extremely toned thing with platinum blonde hair and huge eyes. She reminds me of, well—me when I was in my cheerleading prime. Now, my body resembles that of a raisin.

"Over?" I stare at the water bottle in her hand, silently coveting it. "But I only had a chance to take two sips."

"You want those legs of yours back, don't you?" I nod slowly. "Then hop to it! Give me fifteen reps." She pulls the bar down for me. I wrap my fingers around it and begin the routine all over again.

With each rep, I find myself feeling more and more fatigued. I've only been a plegic slightly under a month and I've already noticed rapid strength reduction in my upper extremities. During the years I was a cheerleader, I was lean and healthy, but I didn't really focus on strength training, which is something I'm currently regretting.

On the final rep, I release my grip on the bar and the metal weights loudly slam against the ones below them. "How many more do I have to do?" I'm not meaning to complain, but my voice ends up sounding a little childish.

"As many as it takes until you can push yourself around in that chair without feeling like you need a nap every two minutes," Desiree says. As much as I'd really like to deliver a sarcastic retort, she's right. My scrawny arms need to be sent to boot camp before they're ready to go long distances without needing someone to take over and push me.

After several more sets, Desiree guides me over to a rack of dumbbells and has me curl five pound weights until I can no longer feel my arms. I let the dumbbell fall from my grasp and hit the rubber mat below. "Ugh! I'm gonna be so sore tomorrow morning."

"You'll thank me later."

I gently rub up and down on my sore arms. "Somehow I doubt that."

She hands me the water bottle again, then leaves to help another resident; a man, who happens to be a plegic just like me, except he appears to be on the cusp of regaining his ability to walk. He's positioned in between a pair of chrome bars that run parallel to each other, using them to support his weight as he slowly moves from one end to the other. My neck suddenly twitches with jealousy, fists clenching together.

I wish that was me.

I throw the water bottle to the ground, suddenly filled with new determination to regain my ability to walk, and reach for the dumbbell. That's when I notice a figure lingering twenty feet away. It's that boy again. And seriously, what's with those dumb sunglasses? Does he ever take them off? It's a gloomy, overcast day, and it isn't the least bit bright in this building. There is something about him, something about the way he's watching me. It's unsettling.

I'm just about to roll over there and ask what his problem is when Desiree returns. "That's all for today, McKenzie. As a part of your three days a week schedule, you have tomorrow off, but we will see you again on Thursday. Have fun dealing with those sore arms!" She gives me a soft punch in the shoulder before leaving, which hurt way more than it should have. I can feel my bicep throb from beneath my skin.

I'm gonna be so sore tomorrow.

When I switch my attention back to the boy, I find that he's not where he was moments ago. Instead, I see him moving towards the end of the long hallway, his fingertips loosely touching the eggshell colored wall as he walks. I waste no time in chasing after him. I can barely lift my arms on to the tops of my wheels from that extreme workout, but I'm not going to lose him. If I'm gonna be stuck inside this glorified prison, then I'm gonna make it my duty to learn everything I can about those who are stuck here with me.

The hallway is buzzing with nurses and patients alike. It's difficult to retain sight of the boy. He falls out of view for a moment as a pair of nurses roll a resident on a bed in front of me. But I catch a glimpse of him once again just as he turns the corner. Who is this guy and why is he so mysteriously creepy? And to make it even more mysterious, as I turn the corner, he's gone. He just disappeared into thin air.

Great! Just great. Now I have a vanishing stalker to worry about.

"May I ask why you're following me?" a voice from behind startles me.

I skittishly jump, then spin around on my wheels—the boy is standing there. "I-I-I . . . wait a minute! Exactly who's following who here? You're the one who's been stalking me ever since I came to this place."

"And yet here we are—you searching for me. You seem a bit confused, love. You alright?" A faint English accent shadows each of his words.

"Yes. Wait! No. No, I'm not alright. I'm most certainly not alright. It's just . . . you were like, right there . . . and then you weren't . . . and now you're here, and it's just so . . . so—" I stop mid-sentence as he arches a cocky eyebrow. "Why are you following me? And why are you wearing those ridiculous sunglasses indoors?"

"Do you always ask this many questions, love?"

"Okay, first of all, stop calling me 'love'. It's weird. I don't even know you." I also find it weird that he doesn't bother lowering his head to look directly at me. He's just staring straight out in front of him, completely ignoring my face and looking over my head.

"Alright, if you insist. What should I call you?"

I consider telling him my real name, but pretty much the only thing I know about him is his bad taste in sunglasses. I mean, this isn't the 1960s; Wayfarers are so last century. "You can call me Your Highness."

"Your Highness?" His pale lips fold inward revealing a crooked smile. "You hail from royalty?"

"No. But I deserve to be treated like a princess."

"Well, Milady, I, Calix am at your service." He bows, sweeping his hand in front of his chest. "How may I help you this fine morning? Shall I go fetch us some tea, scour the land for a wish-granting unicorn, perhaps construct thou a time machine with my bare hands using nothing more than a toddler's toaster oven and a pair of tweezers?"

"Hold the tea. Unicorns are weird. But a definite yes to the time machine. I'd be able to get out of this chair if I had a time machine." I utter those last few words a little lower than the rest.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. So, Calix, huh? Interesting name, I guess. You gonna tell me about your fetish with sunglasses or not?"

He taps the side of his nose and smiles. "All in good time, McKenzie."

"What? How do you know my name? I never told it to you!"

Before I'm given an answer, mother rushes from around the corner. "Oh, good, I found you! I've been looking everywhere. I thought you might have wandered off the grounds, or abandoned your class or—" She stops herself, then takes a deep breath. "We're going to be late if we don't leave right away." She gives Calix an acknowledgeable nod before moving in behind me. Without another word, she wheels me out of the rehab center. I'm left with a single thought constantly crashing my brain.

Who was that boy?

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