(Formerly known as "When Our Paths Crossed")
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A tale of two lost souls brought together by pain, grief and trauma.
Atlas tries to find a place in a world he's worked so hard to escape. Elijah struggles to balance the life he's building and the...
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"I STILL CAN'T walk," I groan, "so, what's the point of all this?"
I wave my hand around the room while my physical therapist, Gina, sighs loudly. With her hands planted on her hips, she reminds me of a schoolteacher I had when I was a kid. All my so-called "behavioural issues easily exasperated her." She despised me, but the feeling had been mutual.
With Gina, I'm not sure if she liked me or not. It's not like I really cared about her, but I applauded her patience. We've been at this for a couple of weeks now that I'm officially recovering enough to start physical therapy. I really wasn't in the mood to be dealing with her, but Gina is unrelenting, showing up to my room on time and everything.
So far, it's gone nowhere.
"The point, Atlas, is to get your muscles used to moving again and to prevent them from atrophying," Gina says, for the millionth time this month. "Just because you can't walk doesn't mean you can't move your legs."
"That's exactly what that means," I mutter.
"The sooner you get this done with, the sooner you get to go back to your room and watch TV all day," she implores with a coaxing smile.
"Well, now you just make me sound fucking lazy," I snap. "And I've also been reading."
"Oh yeah? What are you reading?"
"If you must know, some Shakespeare book."
With that distraction, she's managed to wrangle me out of my chair and onto the table where we usually start with moving my legs. The blood still needs to circulate, and blah, blah, blah.
"You're reading Shakespeare?"
I don't miss the outright disbelief in her tone. A flare of anger is ignited in the pit of my stomach.
"Yeah, I'm reading fucking Shakespeare, so what? My sister brought it for me, and it's not like I'm going to pick up a copy of People's magazine or something," I point out.
Gina bends my knee, her fingers working up my leg in a massage that I wish I felt. "No need to get defensive. You didn't strike me as someone who read dramas. Or read period."
"It's not like there's much else to do here." I watch her for a moment, how she lifts and moves my legs with practiced gestures. "Do you ever think I'll be able to walk again?"
She remains focused on my knee, and for a moment, I feel like she won't answer. Or she's going to give me some bullshit answer like "a little hope goes a long way." I think I read that on some inspirational poster on my way in here.
"I can't tell you that for sure," she admits suddenly. "I want to say, yes, you will walk again, but who knows. The only thing I do know is that if you continue going through therapy, your chances raise even just a fraction."
