The Finest Line

A/N:Hello and welcome to the first chapter of an intended Iker Casillas oneshot that turned into a serial story. We hope you enjoy it as much as we do. Our OC makes us happy, but that's probably just us. Anyway, read on and let us know what you think!

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“We hope you felt safe flying with us.”

“Like hell,” I mumbled under my breath, feeling even more broken than usual without the wheelchair under me. A shaky landing had me madly gripping the arm rests, and I managed to stutter out a, “And no, I won’t ever again be flying with Delta.” Merciless to the flight attendant who was trying, actually quite kindly, to help me into the chair, I hissed, “Piss off, I can do it myself.”

 She did as I asked, shooting me a concerned look that I interpreted as condescending, before I wheeled myself off the plane and out of the airport as well.

“Sunny Spain. Let me find a container for my joy.”

The heat was reminiscent of my home in Southern California, but I could already tell that most of the similarities ended there. The people here were far less American-looking, and therefore more attractive, and it was much more beautiful than the US. I rolled myself through the crowded airport, looking for a familiar face or hear a familiar voice. "Ana! Ana!" I heard two familiar voices calling out to me before I finally picked their faces out from the rest of the crowd. 

I smiled slightly, trying to look mildly happy. "Tia Lena, Tio Pepe!" I was greeted with a warm half-hug from my aunt. That's one thing I miss: real hugs. "Where's my cute little cousin?" I asked once they had gotten me and my chair into the taxi.

"She's with your grandmother. Mama's so excited to see you, Ana; even if the circumstances aren't exactly...ideal," my aunt said carefully. She was talking about my legs and how my parents sent me to Spain to cheer me up. If it were anything else, I'd be perfectly content with being here. But Spain, though beautiful, made me feel more disabled than ever. 

"You'll be free to do whatsoever you please, for the most part. You're a grown woman, after all. I simply ask that you stay safe," Lena said, setting my luggage down on the bed that would be mine for the next few months. They were sweet people, sweet almost to a fault, but they were also very naive.

How was I supposed to enjoy myself at all in Spain without my legs? I couldn't blame my family for wanting me to get away for a little while, but I could only hope that they'd have a good time while I was away, because I had already resigned myself to misery. Everything was twenty times more difficult in a wheelchair, and I'd only had a month to adapt to losing two of my limbs. The heart of Madrid didn't seem nearly as accessible without my limbs.

It was a shame, really. Madrid had always been one of the cities I'd found most beautiful in pictures. Madrid, Buenos Aires, London, Rio, Prague, Tokyo, Munich, Moscow - they had all seemed beautiful to me, at some point or another. Now, I had trouble believing that I could ever see anything as beautiful again.

Days passed. I gradually got better at wheeling myself around my aunt and uncle's small home. Their hallways were smaller than the ones back home in southern California; if that's even possible. I still couldn't get out of the house on my own. Stairs: the bane of my existence. We had stairs leading up to our apartment in Cali, too, but I could just yell down the street in Spanish, and anyone I knew would come and help me. That's what I love about my little community; we're always there for each other. In Madrid, I had no one but Lena, Pepe, and mi abuela. Tio Pepe was really the only one who could lift me out of my chair, so I couldn't go anywhere or do anything unless he was home from work.