Paraplegic (COMPLETED)

Chapter 33

I did it.

Benjamin Trout agreed to financially back me, to fund this project. There's just one final hurdle. He needs to convince three other private investors to join in with him; billionaire friends of his, I assume. Apparently, starting a project like this one costs a lot more than I initially thought. I can't blame Trout for not wanting to invest such a large monetary figure all on his own. I just hope he's a convincing soul; otherwise, all of this effort, all of this hoping, all of this wanting to change—not just in myself, but to change the world—will be for naught.

"What's wrong, Bestie?" Aurora looks at my hands—my fingers are tightly wrapped around the armrests of my wheelchair—then up at me. "Aren't you happy? You did something amazing today!"

I slowly release my grip on the armrests, finger by finger. "It doesn't matter. It'll take weeks before this project gets finalized and months after that before it's officially initiated. Kalyope will be dead by then." I finish my words with a choppy exhale.

Aurora stares at her lap. "But think of the lives you'll help—possibly save—years from now, decades even."

"It's kind of hard to think about that when I've failed to save the one life that truly mattered."

"But she's not gone yet."

"Yet . . ."

Aurora stands to her feet, wrapping her long arms around my neck. "Yeah. Yet."

The nights are getting colder as autumn comes to a close. I pull my sweater tighter around my body, then steer my wheelchair away from The Bluff and towards my bedroom. I'm exhausted; I may just go to bed. My stomach feels like those spinning tea cups you see at county fairs whenever I think about how I take such things for granted: sleeping, then waking, while knowing there are people in the world like Kalyope who might not wake up again once they fall asleep.

Mother and father are sitting in the theater room when I pass by. They tell me they're just about to watch a movie and ask if I want to join them. I agree to stay up for a little while longer Even though I'm tired, I know I won't fall asleep in my wheelchair; I did that once and woke up with the worst pain in my neck.

The floor of the theater room slopes as it descends towards the projector screen, so I lock my wheels to keep me in place. This is my favorite room in the house. Before my accident, I always loved dashing towards the oversized beanbag chairs and jumping face-first into them, like a little kid jumping into a pile of red and orange leaves.

August shuffles into the room with a gallon of chocolate milk in one hand and a stack of blue Dixie cups in the other.

"Late night snack?" I poke the side of his head as he plops down in the beanbag next to me.

He meets my gaze after he finishes pouring, displaying a toothy grin. "Indonesia. I-N-D-O-N-E-S-I-A. Indonesia."

I laugh. "Oh. And I assume that's where you got the milk? From your chocolate milk producing cows?"

He nods his head as he hands me one of the plastic cups full of chocolate milk. "Cheers, sis."

We knock our cups together.

* * *

I've been attached to my phone all morning. A sick feeling floods my stomach every time I hear it jingle or vibrate. I'm terrified that I'm going to receive a phone call or a text saying Kalyope has passed away. I mean, I know it will come—it's inevitable at this point. I'm just having a hard time accepting it.

My vision sweeps over the parallel bars once again. A part of me wants to try them once more, but just as quickly as that thought comes to mind, the thought of me falling takes its place. Six months I've been a prisoner of this chair. I know what the doctors, the world class surgeons, the nurses, Google even—I know what they've said; I'll never walk again. I just . . . I just want to see some improvement, some reward for all the hours of physical therapy and rehab I've endured. Just something. Anything.