Who Are You

Chapter One: Origin Story

The cold winter night seeped through the crack of Dineah Sylla's window, caressing her shaved afro. She shivered lightly in her heavy sleep, unconciously pulling the blankets over herself. She rolled to her left side, facing the doorway of her room. Her life had changed for what she thought was the worst. Little did she know, her life had changed into something much greater.

She woke up around 5am, her bladder begging her to release it. Pulling her insurance-certified wheelchair towards her for only the third time. Sighing, she pulled herself into it, her arm almost slipping under its own weight. Physically, she was not prepared for it. Emotionally, she was even less so.

She hobbled onto the toilet, sighing as she relaxed into the comfort of her emptying bladder. It was almost like she could forget in that moment that her new disability was seemingly permanent. As the realisation that this was now her life set in, her heart seemed to physically drop. She shivered on the cold porcelain seat as tears started to fall on her legs. How ironic, she thought, that she couldn't even feel her own tears on her own skin. Her body was no longer hers, just some fleshy add-on to her waist.

Laughing through her tears, she remembered her first thought during that fateful crash. They're going to have to amputate them. She was wrong, of course, but the damage to her spine was irreversible, although her legs healed fine. The cruel world had taken away her freedom. Nature itself had done this with its icy floor covering the road that her friend was driving.

Her friend, her friend. What a bitch, she thought. It was her fucking fault. As if she could control the car, as if she wanted to put her best friend in the hospital, as if she wanted to ruin her life for some reason. Of course, Tiffany had visited every day and apologized to no end through tears of her own. Dineah had even defended her when her parents started trash talking her. It wasn't her fault, she knew, but it was nice to have someone to blame besides the random chances of the world.

She went back to bed, having resolved both her need to pee and her temporary emotional hishap. She had to return to her slumber to be ready for her first day back to school, her first day being one of them. One of the outsiders, one of the disabled.

Dineah hadn't noticed before how inaccessable the school was. It's almost like it was designed by a madman, having to go this way just to turn and go back to get to your classroom. The fucking stairs were the easiest way to get around, but these stupid ramps were her only real option. The ramps weren't so much the problem, but her books were not sitting still and sliding back and forth without calm.

Arriving in World Cultures, most of which she already knew, she had to wheel herself into the back of the classroom to those extra-wide desks fit for wheelchairs. Daniel Marks could hardly contain his excitement when he realised that someone else had to sit at these awkward tables. He could hardly contain his joy and curiosity as she got herself situated angrily.

"Is it a spinal thing, a muscular thing, or an emotional thing" he asked in a cocky way, happy to show off his knowledge of paraplegia.

"Spinal" was Dineah's simple, grumbling reply.

"Ouch" he said with total lack of sympathy. "Spinal is mostly permanent."

Dineah let out a single chuckle, as if I don't know it. "They're going to do an experimental treatment, so we'll see."

"Good luck" he said sarcastically.

School was hard to pay attention to, there were too many things going on in her head. The distraction of her imminant permanent diagnosis, whatever this "experiment" situation was. If she could only get the feeling in her legs back, she would never take them for granted again. I promise, God, if you're real and if you give me my legs back that I will be a better person. That was her prayer, but sometimes God doesn't answer them. Sometimes someone else does.

"Dineah, there's someone here to see you" called her nurse.

"Who" she inquired, not expecting a visitor at a physical therapy clinic.

"A Mr Kingley, an ex-patient that went through the same treatment as you are."

Mr Kingley walked in with such majesty and strength that he was impossible to ignore. He wasn't exceptionally tall or muscular, but his overly-fancy suit and his composure made him an imposing sight.

"Ah, Ms Sylla, I've heard a lot about you." She gaped at his legs. "Yes, yes, they worked in the end."

Her face dropped, almost disappointed. "How long."

"Two weeks, at least in my case. But it gave me so much more; my independance, my life. Plus a little something extra, something extraordinary. You'll see, you'll see. Call me when things start getting weird, and they will."

He left before she could formulate enough thought for words, leaving only his card behind.

"Dineah, it's time for your treament."

"Yeah, okay."

It was a horrible experience. Five shots, timed perfectly a few minutes apart. But the shots weren't the horrible part, oh no, it was the vomiting. From the moment the third injection was done, the violent puking began. It wasn't like normal, though, it was more like slimy chunks of clay mixed in with smaller chunks of skin, phlegm, and blood. It was excrutiatingly painful, but the hope of recovery was stronger.

An hour later, Dineah was exhausted. The only thing stopping her from drifting to sleep was the constant coughing due to a fluid build-up in her lungs. She felt accomplished, as if she had done something more than just lay there and make a mess of the place. They took some blood to see how she was progressing.

"It seems to be working, but it's too soon to tell. We'll have to see you back in three weeks for a follow-up. I'll set up the appointment with your mother, okay? Feel better, honey."