Tharntype fic- Compounding factors

Chapter 29: The race (Part 1) (Tharn's PoV)

April 7th

I've been sitting on the sofa for the last hour. I readjust the weight of the guitar in my lap and start again . I've been trying to play Perfect, Ed Sheeran's song for a while, but every time I try to strum, pain rises from my wrist to my shoulder. I wince. I'd be fine if I only had the pain to deal with. I can live with pain. But my stupid wrist doesn't do what I want it to and that's what's driving me crazy. I hate not being able to control it. Even really simple daily tasks, like getting dressed, or taking notes, are still a struggle. And those things are nowhere near as complicated as playing an instrument.

I keep repeating to myself that the song isn't too bad on the guitar, even though every note sounds weird and weak, at least I can play something. But the drums are a lost cause.

I met up with the band yesterday, but I couldn't keep up with them, even on our own songs. Everything I did was clumsy and slow, and I could feel myself dragging. My bandmates had to keep stopping so that we could all get back on time. I'm the rhythm section, if anyone should be on time it's me! And I tried, but every time my stick connected to the drum pad it sent an electric shock through my entire arm.

The doctor said that this residual pain was normal. My arm went through a traumatic accident after all. But that's not really that comforting. I should be relieved that Type and I both survived. I saved my boyfriend. I'm not dead. That's great! But I can't help it. I feel like that accident changed everything. It stole a chunk of my identity. Music has always been my plan, and now that I can't play, even simple stuff, I feel lost, in a way that I never have before.

Type walks over and sits on the opposite end of the sofa and pulls me out of the song. I look up at him and try to read his expression. My boyfriend makes eye contact with me and holds it for a while without a word. I can tell that he is still mad.

We haven't talked (like, really talked) since the argument about PT and surgery. Type and I have just been quietly coexisting since then. I assume that we are both waiting for the other person to break the ice and bring us back to normal.

I'm not going to be the first one to try to make peace though. Because I'm right! And he's wrong! Whether or not I get surgery on my arm is my choice, and everyone should respect that. Especially him. Type has been here, dealing with all the fallout of the accident, the surgery, the recovery, the months of emotional ups and downs, all of it! So he, of all people, should know how hard this decision was for me to make.

I set my guitar on the floor and feel a cramp seize up in my arm. I massage the cramp with my left hand to try to get it to loosen. Type is looking at me with a serious face, but If he had noticed anything weird in my expression he doesn't say anything.

"How was the guitar practice?" He asks

I look back at him. He can't be serious. He must have heard me playing! He's tone deaf, but even he should be able to tell that my practice was shit.

"It was perfect," I tell him dryly.

"Hmm" he replies, "good"

Type, seemingly done with this scintillating conversation, turns back to his football game.

"Good" I mutter under my breath

Type whips his head back around and stares at me. "Oh my god! Really? Are we going to keep doing this forever?"

"Doing what?" I ask, facing him. I cross my arms, settling in for the fight that I know we are about to have.

"This passive aggressive bullshit, for one thing!" He says, giving me a pointed look. My eyes dart away from his for a moment, and I know that I look guilty.