Another late night story.
Its 1:50 am. This is no unfamiliar feeling. So why does it make me just as uncomfortable as all the other times. I sit around thinking that maybe tomorrow will be different, but it's the same damn thing every day.
The sun spilled in from the window. The curtains were drawn, thankfully. The cool air from the fan chilled her skin but the rays warmed her skin just enough. It had been a while since she stepped outside, and she secretly yearned to be sprawled out on the grass, staring up at the sky and letting her dreams take over.
It had been a while since she'd taken a step at all. At least, it felt that way.
Memories from that night often plagued her dreams, and it took everything to prevent herself from falling asleep each night. The dark circles under her eyes were just one of many new additions to her gaunt expression. And those eyes were staring down at the paper underneath her hand. The desk she sat at was cluttered with sheets of things she had conjured up in those hours she spent eternally awake. The chair she sat in was her mode of transportation now- the accident left her paralyzed from the waist down. She sat the pencil down, and flexed her hand. She watched the shadow as it danced beneath the movement of her fingers. Her hands were all she had now. All of the things she enjoyed doing before- fishing in the lake next to her father, climbing the trees in her backyard, or racing through the streets on her bike- were all things of the past now. She spent all of her time locked in her room, and only coming out to eat once a day, if that. She imagined she had a huge anchor attached to her, and she was constantly conjuring up ways she could possibly return to her former self. But you can't ride a bike or climb trees in a wheelchair.
