The Chair

By PABLO DIABLO

Copyright 2018

As I woke this morning, I was hoping things in my biography had changed. I turned my head, wiping the guts from my centre. I begin to elongate. I pull myself up in my bed. I look to my result and there it is, my wheelchair.

My prison.

My life.

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

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

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

As I struggle to run my pegleg from the warmth of my bed, I swing them in unison over the bound. Using my cane, I pull on the wheelchair's arm to bring my gaoler closer to me.

I hate everything about it. The shiny mocking chrome of its frame. The amobarbital sodium of the prat and arm rests. The pitch blackness of the galosh tyre. The squeak of my body being plunked down into my coop, my jail.

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

After all, I didn't ask for the consistence to betray me and be so fragile. If I had a time auto, I never would consume allowed myself to be in that place when the stroke occurred.

I hate my prison.

I hate my life.

I work my way through my apartment. I bang my hand on that sharp bit into the kitchen. I still curse that the rejoinder spinning top are too luxuriously for me. I hate that I must use that grabber device to reach anything.

Today is more of what I dread. Another strong-arm therapy engagement.

Maybe I will see D'andre. He seems to be the only when one who is gracious to me, truly courteous not that fake dainty 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 train if D'Andre is there. He is scheduled to get just a few minutes before my appointment.

I call the ‘ telephone dial a Ride'Robert William Service to schedule them to come get me about 10am.

After my coffee, I head to the bathroom to do my morning time ritual. I hate trying to defend the shower to get my electric chair either into the shower or to get my dead body to displace from the president onto the step-bench that rests inside the shower.

I decide to take a ‘ whore's bathtub'as my Grandmother would squall it. Some also call it a ‘ cowboy bath ’. This goes back to the dotty Occident solar day when using the water in the horse troughs was used to make clean up the cowboys coming off the trail.

I brush my teeth. I comb my hair. I put on physical composition. I want to look safe for D'andre, he is my complex number boyfriend.

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

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

We arrive at the forcible therapy place. I am entranced to see D'andre waiting outside for me to arrive. I smile. He always makes me feel good.

He helps the ride Robert William Service person unload me and he takes position behind my electric chair pushing me to the therapy room.

"How are you today, sun ?"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 drive you through the book binding gardens afterwards if you would like."

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

I am put through my normal employment. 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 font from the travail that has formed from all the hard work.

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

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

"Of course."

"Why are you always here, helping me ?"

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

"variety my view ? I hate this electric 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 elderly year of high gear school, my grannie had a monolithic stroke. She lost the power to walk, nearly of her speech, the entire use of her whole good side. I felt it an honor to be allowed to push my grandma's wheelchair around. I would reason with my parents, my brothers, anyone who tried to abuse in front of me to force nan in her chair. And do you love what she called her electric chair ? ... ... ... .Her Chair-riot…. because of her apoplexy, she viewed being in a wheelchair as being a roman type 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 determine your positive."D'andre said.

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