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( CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX: MISS DAISY ) August, 1990
❝ who you callin' no fun, miss daisy? ❞
◯
The sound of his defeat was louder than any other noise that filled the room. Every time the young man thought he had hit rock bottom, there was always a shovel that managed to dig him into a deeper grave. The doctor worked tirelessly when examining his new injury after Devon managed to crawl out of the room and alert the tour nurse.
An excruciating pain flashed through his limbs each time he moved his hand, but Devon was too numb to react. All the dancers rushed into the dressing room after the show, only to see Devon, battered and bruised, sitting on one of the chairs with a noticeable look of hopelessness painted on his face. It was hard to ignore Devon's pitying reality, the male just moments away from performing before he was injured yet again.
If anything, the thought made Devon fall silent with mind-boggling hate, not knowing how he could possibly bounce back from this. "Good news and bad news," the doctor said, commanding the attention of everyone in the room, "The damages of your injury can be repaired with simple exercises and stretches," the man announced, which made Devon sit up eagerly.
"The bad news is that it'll be long time before your wrist can function properly," the doctor continued, dispelling Devon's brief moment of hope. "How long?" Devon grunted through his pursed lips. "It's hard to say," the doctor responded, "You put major stress on your injury, how did this even happen?"
Devon's eyes flashed with darkness, every fibre in his body wanting to rant and rage about the ultimate betrayal he experienced earlier. And oh, he certainly was not going to hold back, not when he was robbed of the joy of performing after weeks of suffering on the sidelines. Just as Devon opened his mouth to reveal the truth, in walked Anthony in all his glory, parading into the room before Devon could utter out a sentence.
"He tripped," Anthony laughed, plastering on a phoney smile, "I was there to help him up before more damage could be done." The choreographer threw an arm over Devon's sunken shoulders, the black male looking at him with wide brown eyes ridden with confusion. "What the fuck are you talkin' abou—"
"—Thank you so much for your time, doc," Anthony said, cutting off the confused young man. "I'll be sure to keep him out of trouble." The doctor glanced between the two males, noticing their strange tension. Devon felt his wounded heart pound at a faster rate, trying his best to figure out why Anthony was so hellbent on selling a lie. Did he know something that Devon didn't?
"Okay..." the doctor slowly said, "Take care of yourself Devon, your health is now in your hands." Devon's eyebrows twitched with misery, his words tangled into the enormous knot wedged in his throat. Between the games, lies and secrecy he had to endure throughout the year, he felt too defeated to speak.
