The Chair

By PABLO DIABLO

Copyright 2018

As I woke this daybreak, I was hoping things in my life had changed. I turned my pass, wiping the sand from my centre. I begin to dilute. I pull myself up in my bed. I look to my go forth and there it is, my wheelchair.

My prison.

My life.

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

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

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

As I struggle to motivate my pegleg 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 convey my jailer closer to me.

I hate everything about it. The shiny mocking chrome of its frame. The blue of the seat and arm quietus. The inkiness of the rubber eraser tyre. The squeak of my body being plunked down into my cage, my jail.

I think to myself how hoi polloi either treat me as someone to be ignored or somebody who can just ‘ figure it out for myself ’. However, the single that give me the horrify flavour when I do heart-to-heart my mouth and must ask for avail really set my brain to raging.

After all, I didn't ask for the consistency to betray me and be so fragile. If I had a time machine, I never would have allowed myself to be in that position 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 shrill turn into the kitchen. I still curse that the riposte tops are too high for me. I hate that I must use that grabber twist to reach anything.

Today is more of what I dread. Another physical therapy designation.

Maybe I will see D'andre. He seems to be the sole one who is prissy 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 umber, I dial the physical therapy place to check if D'Andre is there. He is scheduled to come just a few minutes before my appointment.

I call the ‘ telephone dial a drive'divine service to schedule them to derive get me about 10am.

After my coffee, I head to the bathroom to do my morning ritual. I hate trying to fight back the shower to get my chairman either into the shower or to get my body to move from the chairperson onto the step-bench that rests inside the shower.

I decide to train a ‘ whore's bathing tub'as my Grandmother would call it. Some also call it a ‘ cowboy bathtub ’. This goes back to the wild west daytime when using the water supply in the horse trough was used to clean up the cattleman coming off the trail.

I brush my teeth. I comb my hairsbreadth. I put on war paint. I want to face good for D'andre, he is my imaginary boyfriend.

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

They arrive on fourth dimension. They are squeamish 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 get in. I smile. He always makes me feel good.

He helps the ride military service individual unload me and he takes position behind my president pushing me to the therapy room.

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

"punter 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 wish that. thank you D'andre."I reply.

I am put through my normal 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 well-chosen to see D'andre waiting for me.

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

He takes ascendency of my chair, 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 someone whom you don't see. I see a beautiful, mighty, opinionated woman that just needs to change her view."

"variety my thought ? I hate this 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 class of high schooling, my Granny had a massive stroke. She lost the ability to walk, nearly of her speech, the entire use of her totally rectify side. I felt it an honor to be allowed to bear on my Granny's wheelchair around. I would reason with my parents, my blood brother, anyone who tried to mistreat in front of me to press grandma in her professorship. And do you know what she called her president ? ... ... ... .Her Chair-riot…. because of her virgule, 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 find your positive."D'andre said.

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