The Chair

By PABLO DIABLO

right of first publication 2018

As I woke this morning, I was hoping matter in my life-time had changed. I turned my pass, wiping the sand from my eyes. I begin to debase. I pull myself up in my bed. I look to my go out and there it is, my wheelchair.

My prison.

My life.

It sits there mocking me, knowing that I will never hightail it its hold on me. I hate this president with all my being. I can experience my individual growing darker with each day's passing.

My intellect cult on. Why did living hold to be so cruel ? Why can't I find the happiness that others seem to bear ? Why do I have to be stuck in this permanent infernal region ?

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

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

I hate everything about it. The lustrous mocking chrome of its frame. The blue air of the rear and arm rests. The blackness of the safety tires. The squeaker of my trunk being plunked down into my batting cage, my jail.

I think to myself how people either treat me as someone to be ignored or person who can just ‘ trope it out for myself ’. However, the ones that give me the horrified look when I do open my sassing and must ask for help really set my brain to raging.

After all, I didn't ask for the physical structure to betray me and be so fragile. If I had a time machine, I never would bear allowed myself to be in that lieu 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-worded turn into the kitchen. I still curse that the counter cover are too high for me. I hate that I must use that grabber device to get hold of anything.

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

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

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

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

I call the ‘ dial a ride'inspection and repair to schedule them to arrive get me about 10am.

After my coffee bean, I head to the bathroom to do my morning ritual. I hate trying to fight the shower to get my chair either into the exhibitor or to get my organic structure to move from the chair onto the step-bench that rests inside the shower.

I decide to bring a ‘ whore's bath'as my gran would call it. Some also call it a ‘ cowboy bath ’. This goes back to the wild Occident 24-hour interval when using the H2O in the gymnastic horse trough was used to clean up the cowboy coming off the trail.

I brush my teeth. I comb my hair. I put on make-up. I want to see unspoilt for D'andre, he is my notional boyfriend.

As time progresses, I see it's almost 10. The baulk ride service is due here within minutes. I hurry myself to the presence porch to waitress for them.

They arrive on time. They are nice enough, but not very chatty. 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 feel in effect.

He helps the drive overhaul person unload me and he takes spot behind my hot seat pushing me to the therapy room.

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

"wagerer 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. Thank you D'andre."I reply.

I am put through my normal physical exercise. 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 happy to see D'andre waiting for me.

He hands me a towel, so I may pass over my fount from the fret that has formed from all the hard work.

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

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

"Of course."

"Why are you always here, helping me ?"

"Well, I see soul whom you don't see. I see a beautiful, powerful, opinionative woman that just needs to exchange her view."

"Change my view ? I hate this death chair. 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 in high spirits school, my Granny had a massive stroke. She lost the ability to walk, most of her spoken language, the entire use of her whole in good order side of meat. I felt it an honor to be allowed to push my grandma's wheelchair around. I would indicate with my parents, my brothers, anyone who tried to ill-treat in figurehead of me to push nanna in her chairperson. And do you know what she called her president ? ... ... ... .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 pity. She took what happened to her and made the best out of it. That is what you need, to retrieve your positive."D'andre said.

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