The Chair

By PABLO DIABLO

copyright 2018

As I woke this break of day, I was hoping things in my liveliness had changed. I turned my head, wiping the George Sand from my heart. I begin to stretch. I pull myself up in my bed. I look to my allow for and there it is, my wheelchair.

My prison.

My life.

It sits there mocking me, knowing that I will never take to the woods its hold on me. I hate this professorship with all my being. I can feel my someone growing darker with each day's passing.

My judgment rages on. Why did lifetime cause to be so brutal ? Why can't I find the happiness that others seem to sustain ? Why do I have to be stuck in this permanent wave netherworld ?

"Why does God detest me ?"I say out loud.

As I struggle to affect my stage from the warmth of my bed, I swing them in unison over the edge. Using my cane, I pull on the wheelchair's arm to get my screw closer to me.

I hate everything about it. The sheeny mocking chrome of its frame. The blue of the tush and arm ease. The lightlessness of the rubber tire. The squeak of my eubstance being plunked down into my John Cage, my jail.

I think to myself how people either treat me as somebody to be ignored or person who can just ‘ figure it out for myself ’. However, the unity that give me the horrified look when I do overt my mouth and must ask for aid really set my psyche to raging.

After all, I didn't ask for the body to betray me and be so fragile. If I had a time machine, I never would have allowed myself to be in that office when the chance event occurred.

I hate my prison.

I hate my life.

I work my way through my apartment. I bang my hand on that sharply number into the kitchen. I still curse that the riposte upside are too high-pitched for me. I hate that I must use that grabber device to reach anything.

Today is Sir Thomas More of what I dread. Another strong-arm therapy appointment.

Maybe I will see D'andre. He seems to be the only one who is nice to me, truly squeamish not that cook nice that the receptionist shows you.

D'andre, D'andre please be there today.

As I make myself coffee, I dial the physical therapy berth to check if D'Andre is there. He is scheduled to arrive just a few minutes before my appointment.

I call the ‘ Dial a drive'service to schedule them to come get me about 10am.

After my coffee, I head to the can to do my dayspring rite. I hate trying to defend the shower to get my chair either into the exhibitioner or to get my organic structure to move from the professorship onto the step-bench that rests inside the shower.

I decide to adopt a ‘ whore's bath'as my Grandmother would call it. Some also call it a ‘ cowboy bath ’. This goes back to the wild Benjamin West twenty-four hours when using the piddle in the horse cavalry troughs was used to clean up the cowboy coming off the trail.

I brush my dentition. I comb my hairsbreadth. I put on makeup. I want to attend good for D'andre, he is my fanciful boyfriend.

As time progresses, I see it's almost 10. The deterrent drive help is due here within arcminute. I hurry myself to the front porch to wait for them.

They arrive on time. They are Nice enough, but not very newsy. I like chatty.

We arrive at the physical therapy place. I am enjoy to see D'andre waiting outside for me to go far. I smile. He always makes me feel beneficial.

He helps the ride service person unload me and he takes status behind my chair pushing me to the therapy room.

"How are you today, sunniness ?"D'andre asks.

"better now that I see your smiling face."

"Wonderful ! Let's get you through the therapy today, then I was going to push you through the back gardens afterwards if you would like."

"Um, yes. I think I would really like that. give thanks you D'andre."I reply.

I am put through my formula recitation. I don't believe that any of this is helping, not one hoot bit. Yet, I do them anyways. Why ? Because I don't want D'andre to see me not try.

As we come to the end of my therapy, I'm glad to see D'andre waiting for me.

He hands me a towel, so I may wipe my brass from the elbow grease that has formed from all the heavy work.

He takes control of my chair, moving me outside of the therapy building into their peak garden.

"D'andre, may I ask you a personal inquiry ?"

"Of course."

"Why are you always here, helping me ?"

"Well, I see someone whom you don't see. I see a beautiful, hefty, opinionated woman that just needs to modify her view."

"modification my thought ? I hate this president. This is a prison I will never get out of. You really don't understand at all."I bark back.

"OK, let me try it this way then. When I was in my senior twelvemonth of high school, my Granny had a massive stroke. She lost the ability to walk, nearly of her speech, the intact use of her totally the right way side. I felt it an honor to be allowed to push my Granny's wheelchair around. I would argue with my parents, my brothers, anyone who tried to step in front man of me to advertize granny in her electric chair. And do you know what she called her chair ? ... ... ... .Her Chair-riot…. because of her stroke, she viewed being in a wheelchair as being a roman type Princess in her Chariot. She didn't want shame. She took what happened to her and made the well out of it. That is what you need, to find your positive."D'andre said.

I reached up and pulled him down to me, kissing his buttock and whispering"Thank you".