Changelings

Wheels

When your legs don't work like they used to, it feels offbeat. You lose a part of yourself you once took for granted. You miss the way you moved through the carpet, danced on the floorboards and ran across the athletics track. You are either confined to your wheelchair or bed. The wheels on the sides of your wheelchair become a constant companion. They become your two legs.

No one calls you Macy anymore. They call you the girl with the broken legs; the girl who jumped off the bridge and landed on her feet; the girl who didn't pick an easier way to die.

The nurses look at you with pity. You can barely feel your toes. You only have five. The rest are fake, plastic and painted.

You no longer carry your red backpack. You're beginning to forget the feeling of what it was like, having a heavy school bag on your back. You no longer remember hunching over, walking home in the summer sun.

Your feet rest on metal footrests, numb and lifeless. There's no use for them anymore, you muse. You might as well cut them off.

You still have the newspaper clippings on your bedroom wall. The media became your best friend after your suicide attempt. They violated your Facebook page and sifted through your pictures. The image of you, drunk, at a friend's party, became splashed on television screens and newspapers.

You were the sad and depressed girl.

Kids eager for their fifteen seconds of fame gave interviews as you breathed through a sterilised plastic tube and underwent therapy.

Images of your broken body lying on the cold pavement were publicised all over the news. You became the poster girl for suicide prevention.

Experts put their two cents in the matter, but the truth is, no one will ever know why you jumped.

Getting to class is difficult. You can't climb the stairs or take the short cuts you once took for granted. Getting to Literature class is now a long haul. Your math teacher refused to let you leave class early. Quadriplegics can't use the stairs. You have to use the ramp at the back of the school, and the footpath beside the Kindergarten playground to get to class.

Long gone are the carefree days when you walked with your friends to class, talking about the hot boys in wrinkled white shirts and worn out shoes.

This time, it's only you. The ramp has replaced your friends.

No one pays attention to you anymore. No one calls you Macy.

It's best not to think of such things. It's better not to think about how useless you are now.

The boys don't look at you anymore. If they do, they look at your dead legs. They look at the rusty wheelchair and broken fingernails. They look at your hunched torso; the way your knees reach your chest, and the faint click of the wheelchair.

You aren't Macy anymore. You don't have a seat in class. The wheelchair is your prison.

The smell of the canteen makes your stomach turn. You never liked the smell of meat anyway. Your old friends quickly glance at you. You smile. They look away. Your hands find the wheels. You run your fingers across the rough bumps and push with your arms. People whisper behind you as you leave the canteen.

At three thirty, you leave the school.

Some Year Ten boys whizz past you as they peddle their bikes. Some stay back and dribble basketballs on the tennis courts.

You recognize Sam from the town's footy club, as he runs on the oval. You stop and watch him. You watch the way his brown hair ruffles in the wind. You see the muscles in his legs as he moves his feet. You marvel at the strong swing of his arms and clenched fists.

When you return your gaze to the footpath, you're alone. You turn your head to look at Sam, but he is far from view. His legs carried him away. Yours don't even work.

You reach out for the wheels once more and push. You cross the street once the traffic light signals its safe for you to do so. You take a quick glance at the drivers in their cars. Some chew gum. Others tap the steering wheel. One eyes the red light, waiting for it to turn green.

You remember how it feels to drive. You remember the feeling of the bones in your right knee separating, and the muscle expanding in your lower calf, as you'd press down on the accelerator. You remember the ache in your legs after an hour and a half of driving on the road.

But you feel nothing now. Everything you feel is a phantom: a trick of the imagination.

You once read that once a person loses a limb, they sometimes have sensations in the removed part of their anatomy. A man without an arm may sometimes feel it's there. A girl without a leg might feel the wiggle of her toes.

You finish crossing the road as the light turns green. The drivers slam on the accelerator and zoom into the distance. You wheel yourself past the restaurants on the foreshore and the children on the swings.

"Why is she in a wheelchair? What's wrong with her?"

You freeze as you pass the See Saws. A four-year-old points at you with her Barbie doll. Her mother makes eye contact and purses her lips in annoyance. There are many things you could say:

"I chose the wrong way to die."

"You shouldn't ask questions like that."

"The Leg Phantom stole my legs and left me with broken ones. If you don't stop asking questions, he'll attack you in the middle of the night and steal your legs."

The mother looks at you. She looks at your wheelchair and broken legs.

Without saying a word, she pulls her daughter away. You almost wish she said something, but deep down, you know that even if she apologized for her daughter's behavior, it would mean nothing. It would have been done out of propriety and maybe embarrassment.

You're at the bridge.

It's almost evening and the sky is turning red. The cars are slowly turning on their lights. You glance at the endless sea of blue below you, and back at the path.

This time, there are no sirens, no shocked gasps and a pillow beneath your head. There are no cameras, no voices, and flashing lights. The cars on the bridge move by. No one stops to look at you.

You see some boys on the path below: the path you landed on. You watch as they dive into the water. You only missed the water by inches. You look at the spot where you landed. It's clean and shiny. They were quick to remove your bodily fluids from the pavement.

This time, you don't stand on the ledge. Your feet don't support your weight. You aren't Macy, the girl with the two working feet. You're stuck in a chair, wondering if jumping was worth it.