Blindsided (boyxboy) *on hiatus

Blindsided ch2

Finny's pov c;

"Okay, now flatten the palm of your hand onto the table."

I do as my physical therapist, Wednesday, asks and lay my right hand down, using my left hand to make my fingers stay flat. 

"Good. Now ball your hand into a fist; you can use your left hand to help if you need to."

I fold my fingers in. She asks me to repeat a few times and I do, curling and uncurling my fingers (only with the help of my good hand, of course). Holy hell. I freaking hate PT. We haven't even gotten to the paperclips and shit! I'm still stretching out my muscles as a sort of pre-workout. Add the fact that I can't see and you get a very unhappy camper.

After a few more times, Wednesday tells me to stop. "Now try to grip this ball and bounce it off the table to me."

Fumbling, I try to pick up the fuzzy feeling ball, but my hand doesn't cooperate and I can hear it fall to the ground. I let out a frustrated grunt as Wednesday shuffles around to pick it up off the floor. I can hear her set it back on the table and I try again. 

For a second time, the ball goes astray. "FUCK!" I slam my good hand on the metal table.

"Calm down, it was only your first try with the ball," Wednesday tries to sooth me, "Usually people can't even begin to grip things until a few months of PT."

I take a few deep breaths. "Good, now I want you to put your hand over the ball and press down with your palm, rolling it to your fingers."

What the hell is this chick talking about? I frown, but try to place my hand over the ball anyway. It takes a few times because my fingers won't uncurl out of their limp state, but eventually I can feel my palm pressing against the ball. 

"Very good, Finn. Now pull your hand towards yourself, trying to maintain the pressure throughout your fingers." Wednesday's probably looking at my dad through the window to my right worriedly.

It's a slow process, but eventually the ball rolls underneath my hands. At the last second, it slips and rolls somewhere, but I don't hear it hit the ground at least. "SHIT!" I yell and hit it completely off the table with my good hand.

"Finn, it's alright. How about we talk a break from the ball for a while, yeah?"

I nod stiffly, rubbing my gimp hand roughly. I hear the small clang of metal shuffling on metal.

"Okay, I pulled out the paperclips." I can hear Wednesday pour a few onto the table. "Can you try to use your fingertips to pick them up and put them back in the container?"

Using my left hand to search for them, I then hover my right one over the paperclips and try to pinch one in between my middle finger and my thumb. I can sense my hand shaking as I drag it up from the table. Before I even have to worry about having to find the container, it falls back onto the table with a small 'ping'.

"Try again," Wednesday coaches.

It takes my thumb, middle finger, and ring finger to pick it this time, but I quickly find the plastic container and drop it in. I repeat this for a good hour -- picking up paperclips, dropping paperclips, picking them up again, knocking the container over a few times, my temper flaring constantly. It would all be so much easier if I could fucking see.

We switch to knob exercises. After a little past a half an hour of trying to grip, twist, and turn all types of knobs, I massage my over-worked hand and ask for a break.

I take a seat in the hallway of the rehabilitation unit. "Hey Finn, how's the hand?" Dad asks.

"Still useless." I glare unseeingly towards the floor, more mad at myself then at my gimp hand.