Beautiful Wish

                                                                   Part One- The Fire

Thursday 1 January 2015

It was a Thursday. And my birthday. My mother was just beginning my English lessons. I wheeled in and there it was on the table. A rectangular something wrapped in blue paper. And on top, a card in which was written:

To my darling.

My dearest Wish.

Over the years I see you grow, and I am so proud every time I see you. Have a happy birthday and may all your Wishes come true.

Lots of love,

Mother xxx

It made me feel almost like I was a normal 13 year old girl. Like what I was when we still lived in New Zealand. Hardly anyone stared at me there. But here, it's like I'm something gross they're wiping off their shoes.

Friday 2 January 2015

I was born on the first of January 2002. Mother always said I was her new years' wish come true. I suppose that's meant to be a good thing and all. To make me feel good about myself. Or maybe she really wished for a deformed creature without enough limbs.

In New Zealand I was one of them, but now, in Ireland, they act as though I am of another species. A blind species that doesn't see their points and stares. A deaf species that doesn't hear their whispered comments and giggles behind cupped hands. I'm not that stupid. They don't even seem to realise they're being rude. Or if they do, they don't care. They do it anyway. Adults putting their hands over their kids' eyes. Kids backing away when they see me, looking like they're about to throw up when they realise I'm looking at them. It's horrible. I don't know how I bear it.

Saturday 3 January 2015

It was Father's idea to start home-schooling me. It had been hard enough going to school in New Zealand. And it looked as though the other side of the world would be even worse. Hell, in fact. Just my kiwi accent was enough to get a few laughs and stares. But then there was also me. Hard to miss, going around in a chunky great wheelchair like I do. Oh, and not to mention I have one arm. They don't notice my legs most of the time, because I cover what's left of them with a blanket.

Back in New Zealand people were always asking me questions. The most common: "Were you in an accident or something?" and I always answered in the same way. "No. I was born like this." In Ireland they refuse to even look at me, let alone talk, so I don't have to repeat myself. I haven't had to say it once. I mean, what's the point if nobody asks, right?

Sunday 4 January 2015

I have lots of shoes. But no feet. It's funny. You would think there'd be no point, but what I do is I put them on the footrest of my wheelchair. I stick them on with blue-tack , so that they don't fall off. It adds to the effect of the blanket. Tells people I have legs. Makes me look less... well. To put it plainly: less deformed. 

I often wonder what it's like to be normal. Able to walk, run, dance. I can't even crawl. If I fell out of my  wheelchair while there was nobody around, I would be utterly helpless. It's only ever happened once, and somebody heard the thump from next door, and came to help me. Ill never be able to forget the feeling. I guess it felt a little  like...I don't know... Drowning. I've never even swum, so I wouldn't know. But, to make a guess, I suppose it felt like I was drowning. On the ground, without water. Perfectly capable of breathing. It sounds stupid, now that I think about it. but was horrible.

I guess it would be helpful if I could yell, but I can't even whisper. I need my wheelchair for that. Otherwise I'm totally dumb. That doesn't mean I'm a retard, if that's what you want to call me. It means I can't talk. Got it? That's why writing is so helpful. Because the only reason I would be 'talking' would be if there was someone with me. Other people can talk to themselves or sing, or even hum. I can't make any kind of noise, really. Except for when I cry. But that's just strangled air, anyway.