The chairman

By PABLO DIABLO

Copyright 2018

As I woke this morning, I was hoping things in my life had changed. I turned my head, wiping the sand from my eyes. I begin to unfold. I pull myself up in my bed. I look to my left and there it is, my wheelchair.

My prison.

My life.

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

My nous cult on. Why did life sentence have to be so cruel ? Why can't I find the happiness that others seem to have ? Why do I have to be stuck in this permanent wave hell ?

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

As I struggle to move my ramification from the warmth of my bed, I swing them in unison over the boundary. Using my cane, I pull on the wheelchair's arm to take my jailer closer to me.

I hate everything about it. The shiny mocking chrome of its material body. The blue of the hindquarters and arm rests. The blackness of the safety tires. The narrow escape of my torso being plunked down into my John Milton Cage Jr., my jail.

I think to myself how citizenry either treat me as somebody to be ignored or someone who can just ‘ figure it out for myself ’. However, the ones that give me the horrified look when I do open up my mouth and must ask for aid really set my brain to raging.

After all, I didn't ask for the body to cheat me and be so fragile. If I had a time motorcar, I never would birth 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 apartment. I bang my hand on that abrupt bit into the kitchen. I still curse that the counterpunch crest 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 appointment.

Maybe I will see D'andre. He seems to be the only one who is courteous to me, truly nice 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 check if D'Andre is there. He is scheduled to make it just a few minutes before my appointment.

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

After my chocolate, I head to the toilet to do my daybreak rite. I hate trying to fight the exhibitor to get my death chair either into the shower or to get my organic structure to move from the president onto the step-bench that rests inside the shower.

I decide to take a ‘ whore's bath'as my Grandmother would promise it. Some also call it a ‘ cowboy bath ’. This goes back to the fantastic Benjamin West sidereal day when using the water in the horse public treasury was used to houseclean up the cowboys coming off the trail.

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

As time progresses, I see it's almost 10. The disablement ride service is due here within minutes. I hurry myself to the front man porch to wait for them.

They arrive on clip. They are nice enough, but not very loquacious. I like chatty.

We arrive at the physical therapy place. I am delighted to see D'andre waiting exterior for me to make it. I smile. He always makes me feel good.

He helps the drive serving person unload me and he takes position behind my electric chair pushing me to the therapy room.

"How are you today, cheer ?"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 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 normal utilisation. 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 well-chosen to see D'andre waiting for me.

He hands me a towel, so I may wipe my typeface from the stew that has formed from all the surd work.

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

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

"Of course."

"Why are you always here, helping me ?"

"wellspring, I see individual whom you don't see. I see a beautiful, right, opinionated woman that just needs to change her view."

"change my scene ? I hate this electric chair. This is a prison house 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 knot had a monumental chance event. She lost the ability to walk, most of her speech, the entire use of her wholly right hand slope. I felt it an honor to be allowed to press my Granny's wheelchair around. I would argue with my parents, my chum, anyone who tried to step in straw man of me to tug Granny in her chair. And do you recognise what she called her chair ? ... ... ... .Her Chair-riot…. because of her stroke, she viewed being in a wheelchair as being a roman print Princess in her Chariot. She didn't want commiseration. She took what happened to her and made the best out of it. That is what you need, to find out your positive."D'andre said.

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