This voice in my head seems to parent me when I’m feeling unmotivated or hopeless. There have been points when it was the only thing keeping me from rotting in this bed at all. Being married to Adas without my memory has been difficult, though now I’m feeling so far away from him that it hurts.
Adas did say that he’d want to take me out more once I could walk, so practicing seems like the only right thing to do. I don’t want to read or scroll endlessly through my phone anymore. I need to feel productive like I have a purpose.
Sliding myself from my bed to my wheelchair has come to be second nature for me, which bothers me more than it relieves me. I don’t want to get used to being in a wheelchair. I want the discomfort to push me forward. If I get comfortable now, I’ll never feel a need to practice, and I’ll completely lose all the progress I’ve made.
Wandering throughout the halls in my chair has been the only consistent movement I’ve been able to have lately. Adas is so paranoid about us getting caught by his enemies that he refuses to take me out again like he did a few nights ago.
Going out felt like a holiday for me. Whatever magic there used to be in my daily life as a child seemed to come through with every moment and new sight while we were together in the restaurant. He insists that it’s not safe, that we’ll both be shot to death in the middle of the street.
Whether he’s right or not, he’s correct about one thing: if I can’t walk, I’m in even more danger.
What would he do if I were walking when he got back?
He didn’t say when he’d be here again, so my objective is to be taking steps on my own by the time he returns.
I wheel myself over to the elevator, resenting how easily I’ve become used to it. I should be using stairs like a normal person.
When I’m on the ground floor, I don’t hear anybody nearby, which makes me just as nervous as it does excited.
I approach the patio doors, listening carefully to see who might be around. So far, it appears that Adas brought his entire fleet of men with him. He must really believe I’m able to take care of myself now. Either that, or he’d be too jealous to assign one of his men to help me.
The idea of Adas being jealous over me makes my chest feel warm.
I park my wheelchair five feet from the front door. I figure five feet isn’t too far for me to pull myself along if I fail. Even if it might seem ambitious, I need to at least try. My entire future could be on the line if I don’t.
At first, all I can do is stare at the space between me and the door. My heart begins to race with anxiety and anticipation as I imagine how much it would hurt to fall on my face.
Am I acting insane right now?
Taking a deep breath in, I slowly begin to lift myself out of the chair. My arms are doing fine as I imagined, but my legs are responding at a third of the rate that the rest of my body is.
I sit down for a moment, easing myself back into the chair as the annoyance and anger of the situation begins to come to the surface much faster than I would have expected it to.
This anger always seems to trip me up, frustrating me to the point of quitting when I could have accomplished so much more by justtryinga little harder. I could already be walking all over the place if I had refused to let myself get discouraged.
Another deep breath.
It takes three times for me to actually push myself up again instead of faking myself out. By the time I decide to do it, I’m already feeling so exhausted and discouraged that I consider just quitting for the day. I just want to give in to the piece of me that wants to sleep for the next sixteen hours.
But I can’t give in to it. Adas needs me to be whole again.
After holding myself in a half-upright position for what feels like five minutes, I finally ease myself upward until I’m standing on my feet. The only thing keeping me from falling completely is my left hand on the wheelchair, and I’m sure that to someone who has never been paralyzed, my posture is a little crooked or unnatural.
It doesn’t matter; I’m actually doing it.
Holding myself up with just my one hand feels precarious, like I’m balancing on almost nothing and could collapse at any moment. I examine all of the sharp corners in my vicinity, imagining how I’d look on the floor after I’d smashed my head on any one of them.
I shake my head to rid myself of the thoughts. There can be no hesitation, no fears or distractions.
I slowly shift forward, feeling my balance wavering as I move. I grip the wheelchair hard, my knuckles turning white as I try my best to force myself closer to the doors.
Two steps down.
Two steps feel like such a huge accomplishment, considering how little I could even move my foot a few weeks ago. Still, I’m bothered by how challenging it is.
It’s just walking. I did it for my whole life up until now.
My right foot slides forward, my legs trembling as they threaten to buckle and send me to the floor. I look down for a moment, noticing how hard and unforgiving the sleek white tiles would be on my body. They’re so cold on the bottoms of my feet that it would feel like a punishment to fall on them.