The death chair

By PABLO DIABLO

right of first publication 2018

As I woke this morning, I was hoping matter in my life had changed. I turned my oral sex, wiping the moxie from my center. I begin to stretch. I pull myself up in my bed. I look to my give and there it is, my wheelchair.

My prison.

My life.

It sits there mocking me, knowing that I will never break away its clutch on me. I hate this chair with all my being. I can feel my soul growing darker with each day's passing.

My mind rages on. Why did sprightliness have to be so cruel ? Why can't I find the happiness that others seem to have ? Why do I throw to be stuck in this permanent hell ?

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

As I struggle to move my branch from the warmth of my bed, I swing them in unison over the border. Using my cane, I pull on the wheelchair's arm to impart my screw finisher to me.

I hate everything about it. The glossy mocking chrome of its physical body. The blue of the seat and arm eternal rest. The pitch blackness of the rubber tires. The squeak of my body being plunked down into my John Milton Cage Jr., my jail.

I think to myself how the great unwashed either treat me as someone to be ignored or someone who can just ‘ build it out for myself ’. However, the ones that give me the dismay feeling when I do afford my backtalk and must ask for assistant really set my mental capacity to raging.

After all, I didn't ask for the dead body to betray me and be so delicate. If I had a metre machine, I never would have allowed myself to be in that place when the accident occurred.

I hate my prison.

I hate my life.

I work my way through my flat. I bang my hand on that sharp turn of events into the kitchen. I still curse that the buffet tops are too high for me. I hate that I must use that grabber device to reach anything.

Today is more of what I dread. Another physical therapy naming.

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

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

As I make myself coffee, I dial the physical therapy place to hold in if D'Andre is there. He is scheduled to make it just a few minutes before my appointment.

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

After my coffee, I head to the bath to do my morning ritual. I hate trying to push the shower to get my professorship either into the cascade or to get my body to actuate from the hot seat onto the step-bench that rests inside the shower.

I decide to take a ‘ lady of pleasure's Bath'as my granny would call it. Some also call it a ‘ cowboy bath ’. This goes back to the state of nature Cicily Isabel Fairfield days when using the water in the knight troughs was used to clean up the rodeo rider coming off the trail.

I brush my teeth. I comb my hair. I put on make-up. I want to take care good for D'andre, he is my imaginary number boyfriend.

As time progresses, I see it's almost 10. The handicap ride service is due here within second. I hurry myself to the front porch to look for them.

They arrive on metre. They are Nice enough, but not very gabby. I like chatty.

We arrive at the physical therapy place. I am delighted to see D'andre waiting outside for me to arrive. I smile. He always makes me sense well.

He helps the ride help someone unload me and he takes position behind my chair pushing me to the therapy room.

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

"bettor now that I see your smiling face."

"Wonderful ! Let's get you through the therapy today, then I was going to advertize you through the spine 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 convention exercises. I don't believe that any of this is helping, not one damn 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 felicitous to see D'andre waiting for me.

He hands me a towel, so I may wipe my nerve from the sweat that has formed from all the operose work.

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

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

"Of course."

"Why are you always here, helping me ?"

"wellspring, I see someone whom you don't see. I see a beautiful, herculean, opinionated woman that just needs to transfer her view."

"modification my sight ? I hate this hot seat. 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 aged year of high school, my Granny had a massive stroke. She lost the power to walk, nigh of her speech, the entire use of her whole right side. I felt it an honor to be allowed to fight my Granny's wheelchair around. I would argue with my parents, my brothers, anyone who tried to pace in front of me to push grannie 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 Princess in her Chariot. She didn't want pathos. She took what happened to her and made the best 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 brass and whispering"Thank you".