9
Riley
Anger, Despair, Repair
I’m a monster.
A dozen doctors in an operating room took my leg with no care for my opinion, but since waking in the hell called a hospital, I’ve allowed them to take my very soul, too.
I don’t hurt women. I especially don’t hurt Andi, but that’s two for two now.
Twice, she’s hurt because of me.
Unacceptable!
I’m angry at the world. So fucking angry it makes me sick. The pain meds have worn off, and now my left foot throbs with pain.
Yes, my leftfoot. The foot that isn’t even fucking there anymore.
It throbs so much, it takes my breath away, but what the fuck is a man supposed to do about a limb that isn’t even there? I can’t massage it. I can’t scratch it. I can’t do shit except live through the excruciating pain and not let on to the strongest woman in the world that I’m struggling.
How can I measure up to her? How do I explain why I’m struggling, when my troubles are so dumb?Hi Andi, I’m a bitter fuck because I’m only half a man now, you deserve better, oh, and my nonexistent leg itches. Can you get that for me?
With the bathroom door closed in my face and the memory of tears on her cheeks fresh in my mind, I turn the stupid chair and head back toward the kitchen to clean up the mess I made. Andi might think she’s sly, sneaking into my home, cleaning up, putting everything back where it belongs. But I smell the pine cleaner in the air, I see the magnets on my fridge have been moved, the pile of mail on the end of the counter, the packages sitting piled in the corner, and my couch – messed from Jay’s visit – is now clean and tidy.
Then I see the puddle of sweet tea marking my floors, and the shards of glass threatening Andi with cut feet.
Turning the chair toward the laundry to collect the broom, I stop on a sigh when my wheels continue to squeak. I hate the sound. I hate my weakness being announced to the world. Turning again, I head back to the living room and stare at the set of crutches like I’m just not sure if I can manage it.
I’m so tired, and my arms hurt almost as much as my leg.
I wish more than anything I could go back a month, not fight with Andi, be faster the night I was hurt, and make it so none of this is happening.
One different move, one small change, and I could be chasing Andi around my house, swallowing up her laughter, then her beautiful scent when I catch up to her and claim her as mine.
Again. And again. And again.
For the rest of my life, I’d cuff her wrist to mine and show her that loving me could be nice. I could give her a good life, support her crazy ideas, love her wild streak, and provide her with anything she might need.
Icouldhave made a good life for us.
But now… now I kick the feet rests up on my wheelchair. I place my single foot on the floor and prepare myself for another lift, because I need to clean the kitchen. To do that, I need to get out of this fucking chair.
Remembering belatedly, I hit the brakes before it rolls out beneath me and drops me on my ass. Grabbing the back of the couch and resting my other hand on the arm of the chair, I scoot to the very edge of the seat and breathe through the hornets that sting my stomach.
Couldn’t just take my leg. Had to shoot me in the gut, too.
Preparing myself, I take a deep breath and hold it in, then I pull myself an inch off the chair, only to drop down again when Andi rushes into the room. “Woah! Riley?” She rushes forward with none of the hatred she held in her eyes ten minutes ago. “What are you doing?”
The pain in my stomach hurts, but the concern in her voice fucking enrages me. Thankfully, together, they distract me from the pain in my missing leg. “Nothing.”
“You’re going to stand?” She stops in front of my chair and plops her hands on her jeaned hips. She’s so fucking beautiful, standing here with wild hair and bucket loads of attitude. Her blue eyes stare into mine, piercing my stomach more than any bullet ever did, and swirling in my chest until I can barely breathe. “You know what? I think that’s a great idea.” Like the sweet tea incident never happened, she extends her hands and offers help. “Come on up. I think it’s awesome you’re trying to get up so fast.”
I don’t accept her hands. I don’t accept shit except my own incompetence and the fact I’m unworthy of knowing such an amazing woman. Instead, I disengage the wheelchair brakes and back away. When there’s enough space that my chair won’t smack her legs, I turn it around and swallow the squeak as punishment for being an asshole.
I don’t clean the kitchen. I don’t stop in the laundry to get the broom.
I don’t even ask why the fuck there’s a pig on my guest bed when I pass.