[1] BROKEN ONE // t. stark

7

"Slowly. You don't have to move fast," said my physiotherapist as he followed me taking small steps along the rail. Some times, he would nodded his head in approval. "That's right. Good."

I grunted. "This makes me wish I'd never tried to ride that bike, ever," I mumbled. My breaths became shallow, as if I was panting for running a mile, but even though with only one leg malfunction, it was still hard to walk.

My physiotherapist laughed at my statement. "You sure? You didn't look like you are."

I chuckled, agreeing with him while taking one more step ahead with my hands holding the rails. "At least now I know how hard it is to ride that big motorcycle, isn't it? And what makes Dad doesn't feel like....riding it for a long time."

"Harley Davidson is heavy, Terri. Your body position while riding the motorcycle is also different than other regular bikes. You could hurt your back-"

"Yeah, it totally hurt my back," I cut him. "But I gotta say, those who can ride them for hours are tough."

My physiotherapist smirked. "They've had enough time riding and knowing the tricks of the motorcycle. And most of them have it for generations."

"You're right, you're right," I agreed with him as quickly as possible, suddenly felt so stupid for trying to ride the motorcycle without knowing anything about it. But, hey, I am young. I have a big curiosity over things I have never done. At least, now that I know how hard it is to ride Harley Davidson, I won't do it again in the future. Maybe. "I'll learn about it before hand before I ride it next time."

"Your father might not allow you to ride it again."

"Nah," I conveyed. "Dad might not allow me to ride his Harley Davidson, but I can ask him to buy another Harley Davidson so I can ride it." I smiled in triumphant with the thought.

"Whatever you say, Miss Stark," he backed up, losing the conversation already. "By the way, I hope you're doing good," he said after I took the second round. "Because I have other appointment with one of the agents. Lost both of his legs on a mission. Gotta train him to walk again with new prosthetic legs."

"Oh my God, that's very unfortunate. But sure," I said with delight because, as much as I love a companion, I love being here training to walk again alone rather than being watched by him and tells me how to walk. "I'm good." I smiled.

"You sure you're okay without me?" He looked at me with a slight guilty written on his face.

I let out a breathy chuckle and nodded my head. "I'm fine," I said with a drag. "I can call my friends to come here if they're free."

One of his eyebrows raised in curiosity. "You have friends?"

"I do," I squeaked. "Now don't make your patient wait for you. Someone who's lost both of his legs usually aren't in a good mood."

"Okay. I'll see you later," he said before turning around and headed for the door. "Don't forget to update me your progress."

"I will!" I yelled just before he disappeared behind the door. I let out a long sigh, quickly let myself fall onto the floor and sat there to catch up my breath. If I knew therapy was this hard, I wouldn't ask my doctor to take off the cast three days ago. Somehow, I guessed, walking with two crutchers and a casted leg were easier.

My forehead was sweating. Bids of sweats pouring down from my hairline like I was showering. My hair matted on my head. My t-shirt under the armpit was damp, the back was also wet. I started to smell sour and started to feel uncomfortable with myself after an hour of the therapy session. I looked around the room and felt as if I'm a loser because there was no one here. I don't know if they have other therapy rooms, but this room I'm in was literally empty even though it was full with workout equipment.