Sanders Sides (and more) One Shots

Wheelchair=Excuse?

Before we get right into the story, I think it's best to let everyone know that I am a wheelchair user courtesy of former friends who thought I should "loosen up" (it involved garbage, a large fall, a butterfly net, and pigeons) and this story takes place while I was still a wheelchair user. In my junior year of high school, I was taking a gym class for the sake of earning credits. Before, my anxiety was my strength and my weakness, but one I could no longer use my legs, well, it's pretty much the same, but I had to be helped back into the wheelchair after falling out during a panic attack. On the plus side, I shared the class with the stunning and strong thespian, Roman Prince, with whom I was in a relationship with.

Back to the story, gym class was finishing up and we were all gathered around the coach, let's call him Coach H.H. (high horse). We were all informed that we would be running the track the following day and we had to be active around the track unless we want to lose participation points for the period. Coach H.H. glared in my direction as he said "No excuses for no progress, so wheelchairs shall remain by the bleachers" to the point where I felt myself get paler than before. I hated confrontation, so Roman was visually more upset than I was as we made our way to the locker room.

"Can you believe that guy? I'm no valedictorian, but even I know that's not how wheelchairs work!" He ranted as he was changing his clothes and helping me with what I couldn't manage.

As he continued to rant and I secretly felt lucky that there was someone in my life who cared so much, I froze and slowly grew a smirk as an idea came to me. Roman stopped running his mouth as soon as he saw my smirk.

Here are some important parts to consider: being resourceful while using a wheelchair has allowed me to increase strength in my arms and, although I'm a great actor when it comes to pretending I don't suffer, Roman provides help whenever I need it.

When the next day came, we were all due to meet at the track and, as a result of me leaving my wheelchair by the bleachers, I clawed my way to the track acting like I couldn't simply walk on my hands to get there. Although it got the attention of Coach H.H., it wasn't enough to show him how stupid his rule was. While everyone else was jogging, running, and walking all while Roman was bringing attention to the reminder that Coach H.H. made the rule the day before. While they all accomplished several laps around the track, I only made it around the track once with damaged nails, the outdoor equivalent of carpet burn and scraped knees that I couldn't even feel to prove my progress. The first time in a long while I looked up, I saw Coach H.H.'s mouth agape and his face alternate between sheet-white and Gerard Way-hair-red. To this day, I don't know if it was because he realized he was wrong about me or because he didn't want to risk getting sued, but he called out for Roman to get me back in the wheelchair. We both smiled at each other as I was brought back in the wheelchair and the rest of class felt like less of a chore as we were playfully racing one another.

After class, I had to get to the nurse's office to make sure not a lot of my body was scraped too badly and, by the time I got out, word of my response to Coach H.H.'s rule spread like wildfire. Pretty soon, there was one less asshole on the faculty and, now, what I did became something Roman and I can both laugh at.