MiRACLE (KnB Fanfic)

1.

The last thing he remembered was lying down, staying still-- and for what felt like an eternity of many days, he doesn't do anything.

Couldn't do anything, really. Except cry, whimper helplessly, and wish to die.

He couldn't even kill himself, because he couldn't move.

From the neck down, his limbs had lost function. His fingers never twitched.

And underlying everything, the agony never ended. They called it phantom pains, even though it felt like acid was corroding through every vein and rupturing every bone-- there was nothing they could do to stop it because it was psychological.

And when he cried too hard he couldn't even clear his sinuses on his own.

He was useless. Deadweight. A burden.

On life support.

He remembered the line of flowers by his bedside, the cards his mother would read to him each day, that he stopped listening to.

They always said the same thing, anyways. Something about missing his presence on the field. Condolences for his injury. (Injury. They're calling this an injury?) Prayers for that miracle he needs to get well.

(Because he needs a miracle or he'll never play again.)

Fate has a way of playing pranks on the earnest ones.

They see a star, rising up in the spotlight, basking in the cheers of his success, reveling in the fruits of his hardest efforts--

And it will bring that very spotlight down, physically shattering his cranium and rupturing his spine in what people would call a freak incident.

And that very star will remain strapped to a bed for the rest of his life, spun around every half day to avoid bedsores, rotting alive because everything below his neck was paralyzed.

Fate has a way of being a total piece of shit.

Simply staring at the screen of a television that grew boring over time, he breathed, breathed, and simply, only breathed.

Maybe he still dreamed of the court. Maybe inside him, somewhere, he imagined leaping for the ball, stilling at the whistle, and cheering loudly in exhilaration when the ball shudders through the hoops. Or crying in upset when they ultimately lose a match.

Maybe something inside him wanted to feel the warmth of those hugs, the love of those interlaced fingers.

Perhaps, that was why he woke up.

-

For a painful second, he feels his limbs again. He squeezes his fingers into a fist and curls his toes and he gets out of the bed-- and he's standing.

Maybe his hands are a little smaller than he remembers, but he hasn't seen them in a while, so he doesn't think much of it.

He palms his own face, hugs himself, and he realizes this feeling on his skin is warmth. He feels the pulsing of his heart through his arteries and--

--and he drops to his knees and cries.