Locked Wheels

Chapter 1

And, please, don't start getting all sad and pitying about the fact that I can't walk anymore--I've gotten enough of that to last a thousand crippled lifetimes. The first thing I learned about being a kid in a wheelchair is how absolutely irritating it is to be someone's inspiration porn. I don't care. Not anymore, at least. I certainly don't prefer this life over one where I can, say, walk up a flight stairs, but I'm not bitter or angry or depressed about it anymore. It's been half a decade. At some point, you learn to just suck it up and accept that your legs don't work anymore, and probably won't ever again, and just move on with your life. Feeling sorry for yourself doesn't help anything. Trust me.

But anyways.

By the time Dirk comes into the living room, grumbling and scratching his back, I've already gotten dressed (which even after 6 years is not as easy as it sounds) and eaten a bowl and a half of cereal (which after 6 years is not as easy as it sounds). My backpack and my camera sit on my lap and I look over at Dirk expectantly as he walked in.

"Why, good morning, Princess," I say as he walks over to the messy kitchen counter, searching for his keys. "Did you get enough beauty sleep?"

"Fuck you," Dirk mutters.

"Now is that any way to speak to your dear ol' baby brother? Not to mention I couldn't feel a second of it."

Dirk looks up and frowns at me. I smile. He narrows his eyes. "Get your crippled ass outside."

"Love you, too, brother dear," I call as I wheel out the front door. Does Dirk genuinely want to wheel me into a river? Probably. But I like to chalk it up to him just really not being a morning person. He comes out of the house a few minutes later, keys and a mug of coffee in hand. He comes around to my side of the car and opens the door for me while I toss my backpack inside and hoist myself into the passenger side seat. I drag my legs under the glove compartment, my breath catching ever so slightly in my throat as I do Sitting there still roused a tiny bit of fear in me, even after so long. PTSD sure is a hell of a thing. I wait, fiddling with the radio a bit, as Dirk folds my wheelchair and put it in the backseat. When he finally got back in, I turn towards him and snap another picture of him before he can blink or throw his hand up. He doesn't say anything, only smirks softly. As we drove to school, I take a couple more, of fire hydrants, overturned trash can, a dog shivering on someone's front step, tearing each one off and stashing it in my bag.

I don't know if you're extremely aware, but losing the ability to walk at 11 years old in the most traumatic way possible can really fuck with your head. It sure fucked with mine. The therapists at the hospital couldn't really find anything to offer me to keep me from wanting to rip open my legs, except for photography. I'd tried to get into a years before, and in my childish fervor had even splurged to buy a functioning vintage polaroid from an antique shop in town ("I splurged." That's not true. I stole a hundred bucks from John's dad's and Dirk's wallets and told Dirk I'd been saving up my allowance for a couple weeks. He bought it. I don't know, I guess he was stupid then, too). They suggested it to help me ground myself if I started having flashbacks, so that I could take pictures of what was around me and remind my brain that no, I wasn't strapped into a burning car anymore, and I'd clung to it ever since. I've been almost compulsively taking pictures of everything and everyone ever since. And I've gotten pretty decent at it, too. They even let me be the "official" school photographer these past couple of years, which even though I knew it meant sitting on the sidelines absolutely bored out of my mind, taking crappy pictures of the players at the basketball games with a $60 digital camera from Walmart, I still felt a sense of pride in.

Dirk pulls up to the school and puts the car in park. I watch him unfold himself from the car and unfold my wheelchair back into a functional shape, then open my door to let me out. As he does, I take one more quick picture of him leaning down to move my wheelchair.