The electric chair

By PABLO DIABLO

right of first publication 2018

As I woke this morning, I was hoping things in my lifespan had changed. I turned my foreland, wiping the Sand from my centre. I begin to stretch. 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 escape its clench on me. I hate this hot seat with all my being. I can palpate my soul growing darker with each day's passing.

My mind craze on. Why did life story possess to be so vicious ? 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 hate me ?"I say out loud.

As I struggle to move my legs from the fondness of my bed, I swing them in unison over the edge. Using my cane, I pull on the wheelchair's arm to convey my screw closer to me.

I hate everything about it. The shining mocking chrome of its frame. The bluing of the keister and arm rests. The blackness of the rubber tire. The squeak of my physical structure being plunked down into my cage, my jail.

I think to myself how people either cover me as someone to be ignored or someone who can just ‘ figure it out for myself ’. However, the 1 that give me the horrified look when I do outdoors my oral cavity and must ask for assistant really set my learning ability to raging.

After all, I didn't ask for the consistence to snitch me and be so fragile. If I had a clock time machine, I never would have allowed myself to be in that topographic point when the fortuity occurred.

I hate my prison.

I hate my life.

I work my way through my apartment. I bang my manus on that sharp turn into the kitchen. I still curse that the counter tiptop are too eminent for me. I hate that I must use that grabber device to strain 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 nice 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 chocolate, I dial the strong-arm therapy place to see to it if D'Andre is there. He is scheduled to arrive just a few minutes before my appointment.

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

After my coffee, I head to the bathroom to do my morning ritual. I hate trying to push the exhibitioner to get my chair either into the shower or to get my consistence to locomote from the chair onto the step-bench that rests inside the shower.

I decide to take a ‘ cyprian's bathing tub'as my Grandmother would call it. Some also call it a ‘ cowboy tub ’. This goes back to the untamed Mae West twenty-four hour period when using the water in the horse troughs was used to clean up the cowpuncher coming off the trail.

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

As time progresses, I see it's almost 10. The handicap drive service is due here within minutes. I hurry myself to the front end porch to waitress for them.

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

We arrive at the strong-arm therapy station. I am delighted to see D'andre waiting outside for me to arrive. I smile. He always makes me feel just.

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

"How are you today, Sunshine ?"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 rachis gardens afterwards if you would like."

"Um, yes. I think I would really wish that. thank you D'andre."I reply.

I am put through my formula physical exercise. I don't believe that any of this is helping, not one shit 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 happy to see D'andre waiting for me.

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

He takes control of my death chair, moving me outside of the therapy construction into their prime garden.

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

"Of course."

"Why are you always here, helping me ?"

"Well, I see mortal whom you don't see. I see a beautiful, powerful, opinionated woman that just needs to change her view."

"Change my view ? I hate this chairman. 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 yr of high school, my granny knot had a massive stroke. She lost the ability to walk, most of her speech, the entire use of her unit right field slope. I felt it an honor to be allowed to push my grannie's wheelchair around. I would argue with my parents, my crony, anyone who tried to step in front of me to push grannie in her chairperson. And do you jazz what she called her chair ? ... ... ... .Her Chair-riot…. because of her solidus, she viewed being in a wheelchair as being a Roman Princess in her Chariot. She didn't want pity. She took what happened to her and made the best out of it. That is what you need, to bump your positive."D'andre said.

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