PULL (BXB)

Time Marches On

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***Sebastian's POV***

It's as if everything is finally on track. I press the control panel on the treadmill, relishing in the burn that flows through my calves. The sweat drops down my back as I make the final stretch in today's therapy.

It is incredible being in this life, this world. As time marches on, I am so very thankful for the breaths that God has blessed me with. I was never ready to exit this Earth. My heart, that pounds out of my skin, provides me with a continuous reminder of the battle I am winning.

The treadmill slows while my legs slow down to match the tempo. Looking around at all of the others, I see so many difficult journeys. Some are just beginning. Others have been going far longer than me. The people who occupy this facility are all heroes who have walked miles in shoes that many could never even try on.

I stare at Robert. His leg is gone. The artificial limb that stands in its place is a trophy of sorts. Robert had the custom piece painted to mirror his previous limb. The tattoos show where he has been. They show where he is and where he hopes to go. Robbie just looks so comfortable as he moves fluidly around the gym, making his rounds on his regimen.

Having the strength to move forward, to excel, when a terrorist took your God given leg, is a testimony. Robbie's wife smiles while her husband shows off for his new bride. That type of love is beauty in its purest form. I know that kind of love. I live it. I breathe it.

Hale uses his arms as if they were a part of him. The kid had no hope of recovery. Doctors did not think he would live through Leukemia, let alone be here preparing for a boxing match. The teen jabs left before blocking the undercut that threatens to knock him down. Witnessing his lithe movements is like a live silent film. He moves with grace while pride burns in his eyes. The trainer hugs him after he wins his match.

All around me these warriors stand. Their remarkable lives are on display for my greedy eyes. I drink them in while happiness fills me. I am one of them. I'm a survivor. I am a warrior.

Stepping away from my machine, I throw a hand up to Carly. She's definitely one of my favorites. At five, she has went toe to toe with a vicious opponent. Her threat was not natural, incurable or even fate. The universe did her ugly. The burns that cover over ninety percent of her body map out a five year battle with death. She won. She wins.

Victoriously she runs around the perimeter of the gym. Her thick eyes glasses hide the glass eye that sits in her right socket. Her natural orb, the bright blue one, glistens with joy. She has completed the whole track today. After a year, her skin has become pliable. It moves freely allowing her to be a child for a day. She deserved to be a child for every day that she has breathed.

Unfortunately, a life with a psychotic parent robbed her of everyday experiences that most children take for granted. They should. It's not their job to worry about counting blessings, thanking the stars or trying to make memories just in case they aren't around to see adulthood.

Carly fought for a year in a burn unit when the man that helped to create her set her ablaze. After unsuccessfully smothering her, he poured gasoline around her bed to extinguish the last of her breaths. He failed. She runs with scars that are apparent, but she runs.

Her eyes don't allow her to see the colors that surround her. Her right ear barely allows nature to sing to her in sweet melodies of winds that rustle through the tree limbs or birds that call out to one another softly. The bastard that shares her dna saw fit to push a screwdriver through her ear drum. Unlike the rest of us, she doesn't get to hear her foster mother clearly. Sweet Anita kisses the child on her temple while signing how proud she is. I am proud too. Five is a small number for such a big heart.