The Chair

By PABLO DIABLO

Copyright 2018

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

My prison.

My life.

It sits there mocking me, knowing that I will never escape its hold 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 have to be so cruel? 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 move 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 jailer closer to me.

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

I think to myself how people either treat me as someone to be ignored or someone who can just ‘figure it out for myself’. However, the ones that give me the horrified look when I do open my mouth and must ask for help really set my brain to raging.

After all, I didn’t ask for the body to betray me and be so fragile.