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"Did you know that I have a great singing voice," Vincenzo said, and I wanted to laugh at the image of him singing. The activity didn't match him at all.
"No, I didn't."

It's Wednesday, and I still couldn't sit up when I woke up today. But I did wake up in time for my bath. The humiliation activity I never took notice of until now. Susan, a bucket, and a towel.

I never wondered how they were getting things done, but I saw her holding a bedpan and then cleaning a tube. I wished the humiliation would've jolted me awake, but it didn't, and sleep never overtook me as I watched her care for me.

I wanted to say thank you, but I thought myself too undeserving of her compassion. My problem had never been with Susan. I'd never acknowledged her. She never existed to me, but to think she has made herself available for this.

Renders me weak with feelings of unworthiness.

She hums to herself as she cleans. She washed my face but with body wash, not with the facial cleansers Vincenzo uses.  She rubs lotion on me with determination, and then she dresses me.

She knows I'm awake most times, but she does not bother with a conversation. Instead, she asks about my discomfort ' am I hurting you?" She asked.
"No, I can't feel anything." I wanted to answer, but I don't. I say 'no' as not to remind her that there's nothing left of me for her to clean.

I get moved when my father comes home. He carries me off my bed for my sheets to be changed. His anger has simmered; it often does after the first two weeks of my condition. I imagine it's then that he realizes that I'm not faking. That I couldn't possibly be able to hold out for that long.

As I lay down on a mattress pad on the floor with my door open. My father and his wife scramble around the room, attempting to rearrange it. I stare at the door, yelling to every nerve in my body to get up, get out.
'You've done it before.' I chanted to myself.
'You haven't been paralyzed for a long time, Sara.' I prompted myself, and for a moment, I could feel a hot tear sliding down my face.

When neither of them acknowledges it, I assume I imagined it.

'I'm positive I missed my mom's funeral.' I told Vincenzo as he walked in. He was moving to hang his Designer Leather backpack.
"You did." He says, " we sat down and watched the live stream of it." Vincenzo said, and I felt a hush of sadness, hopelessness.

"Your mother was beautiful." Vincenzo said, "I mean, all the models in the world would be right to bow to her." Vincenzo said words swift and pleasant.
"You must've gotten your beauty from her, no offense, but your father doesn't seem like he's bringing much to the table," Vincenzo said, and I imagined I would've laughed. But his expression doesn't change, so I assume I didn't.

"It was a joyous occasion; there appeared to be over a thousand people. All Gathered in celebration over your mother's life." Vincenzo says, and I know a thousand would've been too small a crowd. Everybody loved her, even if they had only heard of her.

I say nothing as he enters into bed with me.
"In a way, I don't believe you'll ever understand me more than you do at this moment." He claims.
"Why?" I asked, and he hums for a second as if he's pondering upon how to put it into a coherent sentence.
"At this moment, we are both only alive on the inside." He states, and I think he failed to make it coherent.

Suddenly his face is above mine. "Are you afraid?" He asked, "when you get like this, does it scare you?" He asked, and I didn't want to answer him.

Most of the serial killers that are talked about on TV gained pleasure from seeing people afraid. Is that why he's here? To feed on my fear.
" I'm not scared. It's happened a lot when I was smaller, so I got used to the helplessness after a while. And most of the time, it only lasts for hours, and then, I can just get up and go." I said, and it's right, for the most part. I am afraid, every time it happens, I'm fearful because just as it could last only for a moment, I could just as easily never move again.
I would never even feel my self decaying.

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