Broken

4.

Physiotherapy, I soon learn, is a slow and painful process. The progress comes nowhere near as quick as I want it to and I'm left feeling like a failure when I struggle to perform simple movements such as squeezing the physiotherapists hand.

All that keeps me going is the thought of walking again. As a result of numerous brain scans and months of consultations between various specialist doctors from around the world they've concluded that my brain is still healthy and not damaged as far as they're aware. They've called me a miracle. I shouldn't be alive right now.

It's around 2 months after I wake up that my voice is strong enough to form sentences. I can hold conversations, ask the questions I desperately need answering. Progress is slow but it's still progress as they keep reminding me. Singing is out of the question and will be for a while yet.

It's not until around the 9 month mark that they even attempt to have me walk. The first time is a complete disaster, I don't even manage a step before I crumble into the physiotherapists arms. Over the next couple of days they try again but I'm hopeless. I start to worry that I'll be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of my life.

It's a week after my first attempt at walking that I take my first step. It's a small one and I can't manage any more after but it is still a step. My mother cries and my father gives me a congratulatory pat on the back. It's filmed to show fans my progress. One direction might not be together anymore but they still care.

I don't get let out of hospital for another month, meaning by the time I'm allowed to go home I've been awake for almost a year. I'm allowed to walk out on my crutches whilst my father pushes the wheelchair beside me in case. There are cameras, of course there are cameras. They're all desperate to see me, to see that I'm okay. To see that I'm really alive and well.

The walk to the car is slow. I'm slow. But I'm walking, something that seemed a far off dream to me 11 months ago. I'm helped into the car by my father who sits in the front whilst my mother sits in the back next to me. It was decided that they would come stay with me in London whilst I continue recovering. To help me gain my independence fully. I can barely walk right now, talk about live alone.

I don't even remember what my house looks like anymore. It's been so long since I was last there. Over 3 years in fact. The last time I was there was the day of the accident.

I try to avoid thinking about the accident as much as possible, not that I remember much of it. It's kind of a taboo subject, especially around Harry. He remembers everything, I can tell. The other boys filled me in on his recovery. He was in hospital for a couple of weeks with some bruising and a few broken bones, nothing too serious, nothing like me. Apparently it shook him up real bad though, he refused to drive for over a year.

The worst part is that he blamed himself. Especially at the beginning he believed it was his fault that we got in the accident and that i almost died. He was driving that day so he immediately blamed himself. That wasn't the case, even I remember that. It was a drunk driver. Swerved into the middle of the road and hit our car. He was going so fast that he knocked us off the road and the car flipped. No part of that was Harry's fault. He's been to see me most out of the boys since I woke up, I think it's because he's more relieved. He finally has closure from an accident over 3 years ago.

The drive from the hospital to my house isn't too long but I try to enjoy every moment of it. Every moment of being outside, of being alive. It's the first time since I woke up that Ive even felt slightly like myself. Only slightly though. It's hard to smile and laugh these days, hard to crack a joke. The boys have noticed it, my parents have noticed it. They all realise that I'm not myself anymore.

They were probably warned of that though. Before I woke they would have been told that it was likely I'd have brain damage. That I'd never walk of talk again. Even when I woke up they weren't sure, they still aren't really. They have no clue what's going on inside my head, but then again neither do I.

When we pull up outside my house it takes me a moment to realise that it's actually mine, that I used to live here alone. It's a big house to live alone in.

"Do you want to walk or use the wheelchair?" My dad asks. In truth I want the wheelchair. My body aches from the short walk from the hospital to the car and the doctors warned me to take it easy, to easy myself back in to everyday life. But I'm also too proud to do that and I want to walk. I want to prove to myself and others that I'm recovering, that I'm going to be okay.

"I'll walk" I reply and he smiles, handing me my crutches. I'm slow getting out the car and even slower walking up the drive. My dad and the driver bring my stuff in for me, there's no way I'd be able to carry it myself.

My mum unlocks the door for me when I finally reach it and I head inside, straight to my living room where I'm ready to sit down and relax. Instead I'm greeted by a room full of people.