Butterfly

Thirty Six

The next week was hell.

I told the nurse what day the art show was, and asked if I could walk by then.

She grimaced and clicked her tongue.

She said that if I was really determined it could be possible.

I told her that's what I wanted most.

So she said I could do it.

But after just two days, the burn in my legs had grown so intense, I didn't know how I could do it.

The work was double what it had been.

And I could feel it.

Hobi would still come by after school, so I would ask to do the physical therapy sessions in the mornings.

Mom would come visit around lunchtime.

Dad came when he wasn't working, which really wasn't all that often.

I was often too tired by the time Hobi or mom came, and they both started to notice.

I could tell Hobi was getting more and more worried as time went on, but I only denied the pain.

The nurses keep asking me if I want to give up, if I want to go back to the easier schedule I was on before.

But I refuse.

The image and vision of standing next to Hobi, it's too strong.

And that's what I think about every time I feel like my legs are going to explode or burst into flame.

I want this more than anything.

So I'm going to do the work that's necessary.