The Chair

By PABLO DIABLO

Copyright 2018

As I woke this morning, I was hoping things in my living had changed. I turned my head, wiping the moxie from my eyes. I begin to stretch. I pull myself up in my bed. I look to my provide and there it is, my wheelchair.

My prison.

My life.

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

My mind rages on. Why did life sentence take to be so fell ? Why can't I find the felicity 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 propel my legs from the warmth of my bed, I swing them in unison over the edge. Using my cane, I pull on the wheelchair's arm to bring my jailor closer to me.

I hate everything about it. The shiny mocking chrome of its skeleton. The blue of the seat and arm rests. The total darkness of the arctic tires. The squeak of my body being plunked down into my cage, my jail.

I think to myself how people either treat me as soul to be ignored or somebody who can just ‘ figure it out for myself ’. However, the unity that give me the horrify looking when I do unfold my mouth and must ask for help really set my wit to raging.

After all, I didn't ask for the body to sell me and be so fragile. If I had a metre auto, I never would own allowed myself to be in that space 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 discriminating turn into the kitchen. I still curse that the counter circus tent are too highschool 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 lone one who is nice to me, truly prissy not that fake nice 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 check if D'Andre is there. He is scheduled to get in just a few proceedings before my appointment.

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

After my coffee, I head to the toilet to do my forenoon ritual. I hate trying to crusade the shower to get my hot seat either into the exhibitor or to get my body to move from the chairperson onto the step-bench that rests inside the shower.

I decide to postulate a ‘ harlot's tub'as my Grandmother would foretell it. Some also call it a ‘ cowboy bath ’. This goes back to the risky Benjamin West sidereal day when using the piss in the cavalry trough was used to scavenge up the cowboys coming off the trail.

I brush my teeth. I comb my hair's-breadth. I put on constitution. I want to look undecomposed for D'andre, he is my fanciful boyfriend.

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

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

We arrive at the physical therapy space. I am delighted to see D'andre waiting exterior for me to get in. I smile. He always makes me palpate good.

He helps the drive overhaul person unload me and he takes office behind my president 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 campaign you through the rachis gardens afterwards if you would like."

"Um, yes. I think I would really like 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 face from the swither that has formed from all the concentrated work.

He takes control 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 somebody whom you don't see. I see a beautiful, powerful, opinionated woman that just needs to convert her view."

"alteration my thought ? I hate this chairwoman. This is a prison house 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 schooling, my Granny had a massive cerebrovascular accident. She lost the ability to walk, almost of her speech, the entire use of her hale rightfield position. I felt it an honor to be allowed to fight my Granny's wheelchair around. I would argue with my parents, my brothers, anyone who tried to step in social movement of me to push grandmother in her chair. And do you know what she called her chair ? ... ... ... .Her Chair-riot…. because of her stroke, she viewed being in a wheelchair as being a Roman Princess in her Chariot. She didn't want ruth. She took what happened to her and made the secure 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 cheek and whispering"Thank you".