Flying

Bound. Legs numb. Still numb. To touch, to every sensation. I sit here confined, trapped, imprisoned. My wheelchair, my jail cell. Locked up, keys thrown away. Life sentence.

It’s been six months since the crash. To this day, I am haunted by memories of the hospital. First – that awful, sterile smell. It lingered. I look back and I can see everyone else in the hospital: amputees, burn victims, the abused; I was surrounded by suffering. And I couldn’t escape. Paralyzed. But worst of all, I remember those terrible nights. When everyone went to bed, all was silent, and I was alone with my thoughts. My head would pound from the flood of rage, from the flood of sadness, from the flood of regret. I held my head in my hands and cradled my self in the fetal position, crying to the heavens, “Why?” over and over. Again and again. It took many weeks until I could sleep soundly, until my nights were not filled with torment.

I am home, sitting. I’m by my window watching the birds flutter about. This is my pastime, my sanctuary. I listen quietly as I always do for their chirping. I hum to their melody. I don’t notice the door creak as my sister enters the room. She gently places her hand on my shoulder. She gives me a tired smile, which I can only return halfheartedly.

“Breakfast is ready, will you eat with the family?” she says. Her hand is still on my shoulder, holding me, holding on to me.
“I’m feeling well today, I’ll be there in a sec, Abby.”
“Thanks bro, see you soon.”

I nod to her, and she exits the room. I exhale. I look back out the window. The birds are gone. I can see my reflection in the glass pane. It mortifies me. My eyes are sunken, face pale, shoulders caved in. Everything looks so small and frail, not robust and vivacious – like it should be. I sigh and turn to the door.

I wheel myself into the hallway. It is a cold, long, lonely place. Reminds me of the hospital. With better decorations. It is also a difficult place for a handicapped person to navigate. Everything is precious and very breakable. Things I used to consider beautiful are now merely hazards, roadblocks and daily inconveniences. Continuing on my journey, I come to the staircase. I can smell the maple syrup and pancakes from here. My mouth begins to water. My sister seems to have cooked my favorite breakfast meal. I look down the steps, and see the deep brown hues of the mahogany, and the inlaid designs, which my feet will never caress again. I see the mountainous view this provides, my personal eavesdropping point for downstairs. I roll down the hallway and give one wistful glance back at the railing that I used to slide down as a child. I go to the elevator; there is no magic here. I can hear the machine grind and rumble as it brings me down a floor. The doors open, and my sister is there. She hugs me, and then wordlessly pushes me to the table.

Moments like these I cherish. Where speaking isn’t necessary and where bonds are sewn stronger than any word could be made. I look up to my sister’s face and smile. She has done so much for me. Sacrificed so much for me. She had just completed her bachelor’s degree when I had my accident. She immediately returned home to take care of me. Ended all job prospects. I can see by the bags under her eyes. I am nothing but a burden. She still continues to love me unconditionally, so all I can do is come to breakfast once in a while.

We wheel into the kitchen. My parents have anxious looks on their faces. They are standing. She places me at my spot at the table, and then goes to her seat. My parents take their seats. My sister passes me the pancakes and syrup and pours me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. We all begin to eat. No one speaks. Moments like these I abhor. Our forks and knives clang against the plates, resounding through the silence. My father slurps his coffee. My mother barely touches her food. Neither gives me eye contact, too afraid to speak first.

“This is ridiculous,” my sister states. I loved my sister’s bluntness. She could assert herself when necessary. “We are a family, not the Addam's Family.”

I chuckled. Both my parents had shocked expressions at her sudden remark. My sister had a satisfied one. Everyone relaxed.
I started to enjoy my meal. To delight in the rich maple syrup, letting the flavor fill my mouth. My sister put chocolate chips in the pancakes, as a personal touch. I remember when she first tried cooking pancakes. They came out looking like records; they were so burnt. I still ate some. These pancakes have the perfect fluffiness, just the right texture and sweetness. And they don’t taste like charcoal. This is breakfast, with family, loved.

“You look good today son,” my father says.
“Yeah George, you look healthy,” my sister adds. My mother sits there mute. She took the accident the hardest in the family, the closest to the heart. The wound has not healed. She still blames herself. I can see her carry that regret. She tries to hide it with a smile, but I have that same practiced halfhearted expression. Worst thing is, it’s not her fault. She didn’t make a mistake driving that night. I wish I had the courage to tell her that none of this was her fault. But I don’t.
I’ve lost my appetite and my good mood. My thoughts turn dark.

“I’m finished, I’ll be heading back to my room,” I state. My mother looks at me, concerned.
“But you’ve barely touched your plate.” my father inquires.
“Not hungry,” I assert.
“No, you are going to finish your plate, and eat with us,” my sister counters. Her voice strains.
“I don’t feel well,” I say.
“Don’t make excuses,” she argues.

“I’m not! Do you think it’s easy being like this? Crippled? Sick all the time? It’s a miserable life! You don’t have the slightest idea do you?” I shout. I pound my fist on the table. All the plates rattle. My parents jump. Their faces are as pale as mine, eyes wide and fearful.

“Please calm down George,” my father quickly says, “and Abby, if he’s not feeling well he should just go back and rest.”
“I know what he is trying to do. It isn’t healthy if he doesn’t eat. But he’s also just being antisocial, he feels fine,” she accuses. My mother looks helpless.

“I am not lying. Do you think this is an act? Do you think I can ever get better? No. There is no hope for me!” I rage in fury.
“The doctor said you have a chance, that he saw a twitch…” my father stutters.
“That was months ago, why are you holding on to such a false hope? Can’t you see it’s just hurting everyone, especially Mom?” I start to hear my mother’s muffled sobs as she cries into her hands. My words strike my father like a blow, deflating him like a balloon.

My sister silently comes behind me and rolls me toward the elevator. She is crying.
“This was a mistake brother,” she states, “just go back to your room, please.”

Hurt the ones closest to your heart. I can’t feel. I return to my room, down the long, lonely hallway. I pass by the stairway, and I can hear my sister console my mother. My father just left for work; I heard the front door shut. I enter my room and go to the window. My sanctuary. I look to see if the birds are there to comfort me. But they are not. I punch and shatter one windowpane. Then I break all of them. My hands are bleeding, glass shards embedded in them. I am alone with my thoughts. And I hold my pounding head, thinking, “Why go on?”

I wheel into the hallway, knowing my destination. I come to the staircase and look down the peak. This is my departure from this suffering. My suicide spot. I brace myself and fling my whole body off the wheelchair, down the steps. I am flying.
I hear my sister rush to my side, screaming wildly. Everything turns dark.

I awake in a bed. I smell a sterile stench. People are moaning around me. I am in a hospital. But I cannot move my arms. Try to move my shoulders. Chest too. Can’t. Am I strapped in? I look to the left. A doctor is there. I mumble.

“Glad to see you’re awake,” he says.
“Why can’t I move my upper body?” I stammer.
“You’ve suffered major injuries from your fall, much more severe than your previous ones,” he says. I look at him with pleading eyes. “Before the fall, your spinal cord had suffered damage, but it was reversible. However, now you broke vertebrae in your neck.”

It was reversible.

“You are going to be a quadriplegic permanently. I know it’s a lot to take in. But we’ll have staff working with you on living situations,” he says.
“Where is my family?” I ask. He looks away. I repeat the question.
“They aren’t ready to see you,” he answers. I turn my head in shame and regret for my actions.
“Can I be alone for a while?” I ask.
“Of course. It’s a lot to take in at once,” he replies.

The doctor leaves the room quietly. I am alone with my thoughts. I look out the window. There are birds. Think back to when I threw myself down the staircase. For a brief instant, before gravity took effect, I was weightless. And in that fleeting moment, I joined my birds in the blue sky.