The Chair

By PABLO DIABLO

Copyright 2018

As I woke this dawning, I was hoping things in my life had changed. I turned my head, wiping the grit 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 run away its time lag on me. I hate this chairperson with all my being. I can feel my soul growing darker with each day's passing.

My mind madness on. Why did living sustain to be so cruel ? Why can't I find the happiness that others seem to have got ? Why do I have to be stuck in this perm Hades ?

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

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

I hate everything about it. The shiny mocking chrome of its underframe. The blue sky of the seat and arm respite. The lightlessness of the rubber tires. The squeak of my torso being plunked down into my John Milton Cage Jr., my jail.

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

After all, I didn't ask for the body to betray me and be so delicate. If I had a meter political machine, I never would ingest 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 sharp turn into the kitchen. I still curse that the tabulator tops are too luxuriously for me. I hate that I must use that grabber device to accomplish anything.

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

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

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

As I make myself coffee, I dial the physical therapy topographic point to check over if D'Andre is there. He is scheduled to come just a few minute of arc before my appointment.

I call the ‘ telephone dial a Ride'inspection and repair to schedule them to add up get me about 10am.

After my coffee berry, I head to the bathroom to do my sunup ritual. I hate trying to fight the shower to get my chair either into the exhibitioner or to get my body to move from the professorship onto the step-bench that rests inside the shower.

I decide to take a ‘ whore's bath'as my Grandmother would call it. Some also call it a ‘ cowman bath ’. This goes back to the fantastic west days when using the water supply in the knight trough was used to clean up the cowboys coming off the trail.

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

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

They arrive on sentence. They are decent 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 thoroughly.

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

"How are you today, fair weather ?"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 labour you through the plump for gardens afterwards if you would like."

"Um, yes. I think I would really care that. Thank 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 happy to see D'andre waiting for me.

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

He takes mastery of my president, moving me outside of the therapy building into their flower 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, opinionated cleaning lady that just needs to vary her view."

"modification my opinion ? 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 senior year of high school, my Granny had a massive stroke. She lost the ability to walk, most of her address, the full use of her whole right on side. I felt it an honor to be allowed to push my Granny's wheelchair around. I would argue with my parents, my crony, anyone who tried to step in movement of me to bear on Granny in her electric chair. And do you know what she called her chair ? ... ... ... .Her Chair-riot…. because of her chance event, 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 trump 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 nerve and whispering"Thank you".