Viktor
Life can be so damn cruel and unfair. I should be in that casket, not her, never her. With my head down, I breathe deeply and feel the tears sting my eyes.
On my lap is two dozen red roses. I know she’s rolling her eyes and scolding me for wasting money on the flowers. I place all but one rose onto the casket that is much too big. With my chin to my chest, I place a shaky hand on the cold box, aware of all the eyes watching me. There aren’t many here for the funeral, not that I expected there to be, but she deserved more, so much more.
I sit back and settle the last rose on my lap and grab the wheels at my sides. I make my way down the aisle, ignoring the pitying glances directed at me.
Fuck all of them.
An incessant itch begins in my leg, just below my knee. I suck in air as the need to scratch overwhelms me, but I only move my arms faster. Each push is a reminder that my arms aren’t as strong as they once were and—the glaringly obvious fact—that I have nothing there to scratch.
I’m forced to stop when the only other woman in my life steps before me. It’s either that or run her over, something I can’t do. Her red-rimmed eyes soften a fraction before the skin between her eyes wrinkles.
“Viktor. You haven’t returned any of my calls. I didn’t think you were coming.” Her voice is sharp, hiding her own grief.
“I came,” I say, grinding my teeth.
“Did you get my message about tomorrow?”
“You mean the one saying someone will be coming into my home to babysit me?” I snap. There’s so much grief inside me, and I know this woman doesn’t deserve my anger, but I can’t help it.
She sighs with frustration. “Vik, darling, no one is babysitting you. Ms. Marchant comes highly recommended.” Her eyes dart down to my leg. “It’s physical therapy, darling.”
“I’ve had physical therapy, Aunt Mabel,” I snap, and lift what’s left of my right leg. No way in hell could I forget the agonizing pain or the time I spent in the hospital.
“Viktor,” she whispers, and I hear her sadness over what’s become of me and my life. “I know you’ve already tried the prosthetic before, but I feel like it will work out better this time. The doctor stressed the importance of the physical therapy in your recovery. Your new prosthetic will be ready very soon.”
Nothing she says is new to me. I’m perfectly aware of what everyone has told me. The psychiatrist, doctors, and specialists have all told me that I can live a normal life, telling me how vastly the technology behind prosthetics has improved.
Wellfuckthem.
They weren’t missing a part of their leg. They weren’t waking up with a cramp in a calf that doesn’t evenexistanymore.Theyweren’t burying their mother after she suffered a coma-inducing heart attack when she learned an IED had struck her son’s unit.
Fuck all of them.
The anger within me mixes with my grief, and I can’t breathe. The elephant that has made its home on my chest only makes itself more comfortable. I snap my eyes to Aunt Mabel and say between clenched teeth, “I’ve gotta go.”
I don’t give her a chance to answer and awkwardly maneuver the contraption I’ve been forced to use. Thankfully she doesn’t force me to stop, because let’s face it, now she can.
My brows come together as my frustration builds to a boiling point. All I want to do is throw on my running shoes and go for a run to clear my mind. The fact that I can’t, and probably won’t ever again, causes the air in my lungs to seize. My vision blurs for a moment as I deprive my body of the oxygen it so desperately needs.
“Get your shit together,” I scold myself.
Months ago, I was helping my team clear out buildings, running head first into high-stress situations. Now I’m in a wheelchair, having a pity party for one and down a fucking leg.
My nose flares as I breathe in the cold air pressing on my skin. I squeeze my hands around the metal handrim and close my eyes like the shrink taught me. Thankfully, he warned me that this would happen and emphasized that I needed to learn how to calm myself down.
A few more breaths ease the pressure in my chest and head. Opening my eyes, I note the snowflakes coming down on me. Some melt as soon as they touch my skin, and others last a moment longer on the monkey suit I’m wearing.
I need to get home before I literally get stuck in this shit. I look around the parking lot and work my way to the taxi driver who brought me to the church. Once I’m settled in the seat, the man stows my wheelchair in the trunk, and I direct him to my place. As we drive away I realize I’m officially an orphaned, one-legged man. No magic will bring my mom or my leg back. This cursed life of mine is my reality.
The familiar sting forms in the backs of my eyes as the tree line becomes a blur. I scrub my face with my hands. “I need a fucking drink.”
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The sound penetrates the cobwebs that have moved into my brain. I throw my arm over my eyes, hoping it will go away.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
