Page 32 of Kill Me

“Can I put in a request for an aid to help me with walking while I’m here?”

“Sorry, Sweet Cheeks, no can do. That could be considered a weapon, and you know, with you being mentally ill and a suicide risk, it’s just not something that the doc would think was a good idea. It’s time to learn not to lean on your crutches and step into the real world. Hit the ground running, as one would say—no pun intended.”

“But, I have a physical disability…”

“You keep bringing up these issues that aren't my problem. Do some stretches; that will help.”

Yeah, because stretching will reignite my ability to walk pain-free again, you ignorant fuck.

“Or you could lose some weight, that will help too. All that pressure on those joints can’t be fun for them. I heard ‘em creaking, the poor bastards.”

How a man like him ever got a job as a caregiver or passed his nursing qualifications, quite literally blows my mind. There’s not an ounce of care in his bones.

A person who has never experienced a chronic illness will never understand the complete one-eighty that your body can do in a short time. One day you can be dancing in your bedroom or cleaning the bathroom, and the next you're laid up for a week with nowhere to go. It’s part of the reason I haven’t continued with my make-up artistry qualification, because without a specialist chair for the clients to lean back on, I’m unable to sit comfortably to paint their faces to the best of my ability. And to get that, I need money. Money isn’t something that’s easy to come by for someone who’s unable to work due to a disability.

Sometimes, I do transitions on social media. A secret account, of course, because it’s something I can’t afford for my family to ruin. After my accident, it was the one thing I could do with the limited movement I had, and I honestly love it. Maybe it’s something I could monetise in the future.

The future. That’s a wild concept. I’ve never thought about the future. I’ve lived minute by minute, hour by hour, for the entirety of my life.

The sheer exhaustion from simple things like showering or washing my hair can put me into a flare-up for days. And it’s hard being in a flare-up in a house where you’re not believed and forced to work through it, causing more issues in the long run. As time has gone on, more and more issues have arisen due to my inability to rest.

When I’m talking to someone who asks me if I’m in pain at that exact moment they’re asking, it’s hard to get through to them that I’m quite literally in pain all of the time. The clue is in the name: chronic pain. The only thing that differs is the amount. My base level of pain is a 6 out of 10, minimum. Even when I’m sitting down, my muscles scream at me, my nerves pulsate, and on the bad days, if someone brushes against my skin, it’s like someone skinning me alive would be less painful.

There’s a thing called spoons for people who suffer with chronic illnesses. Each day you have a certain amount of spoons. Kind of like currency. Once they're used up, that’s it until the next day. Some days you have ten spoons, other days you have two. I’m envious of the people who never have to experience it, but even the people around us get fed up with it.

It’s probably partly why I’ve never looked to the future. My mum is right: what kind of man would want a woman like me? I don’t know from one day to the next whether I’ll be able to get out of bed, let alone anything else.

My diagnosis, according to the doctor, is chronic regional pain syndrome. They tried to fob me off with a diagnosis of fibromyalgia, but my mother wasn’t having it. She said that was a cop out because they were too lazy to figure out what was actually going on. Between you and me, though, it was probably because once you receive a fibro diagnosis in the UK, all help ceases to exist. There are no follow-ups: they try to take away your medications, and anything that happens after that diagnosis to make your health worse is all put down to the fibro, so no further investigations are warranted. And God forbid you should have a fibro diagnosis and be overweight. All health problems lead back to you being fat, even if the symptom of your condition is an inability to lose weight.

On the one hand, the fibro diagnosis made sense because it is triggered by trauma, and aside from the accident, my life has been riddled with it, but with that would come the inability for my mother to gain any attention from the doctors, and I’d be left to fend for myself. CRPS usually affects an arm or a leg and is triggered by an accident or a surgery. I disagree with me having CRPS, because my entire body is affected, not just the side that was injured. But, alas, the boss lady spoke, and the peasants listened. Many cases are misdiagnosed or go undiagnosed, so I fear I am one in a very long line that has fallen through the cracks.

It’s lighter than it was when I made the walk over here last night, so as I’m moving, I try to take in a little bit more of my surroundings. The fence is still there with the big warning signs. The garden spreads to a wider boundary than I could see last night, and the grass is uncut throughout. It’s almost like there’s an imaginary separation directly in the middle of the space because in one step you go from complete destruction to pristine perfection.

The area between the houses is vast, but I have yet to see another person. You’d think gardening would be a way for us to pass the time and a good option for therapy, but it’s clear that doesn’t happen here. To the left of me as I walk back from the derelict building, there is a bigger fence with a sign saying keep out on the front of it. No obvious gate exists, but I’m starting to see that not everything here is as it seems.

Limpdick walks through the back door that leads onto the back porch, and just as I reach it, he slams it in my face.

Charming.

“Gotta be quicker than that, Sweet Cheeks.”

I hoist open the door, grabbing onto the doorframe to pull myself up the two steps into the enclosed space, before asking, “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Because your cheeks are sweet.” He grins at me, poking the tip of his tongue out to lick his dry, crusty lips and cackles—that’s right, cackles—like one of those dirty witches when they’re casting the spells on the partners of their love interests out of jealousy. I can imagine it actually, him leaning over a cauldron having to spell women into showing him any interest—his personality is a dud, after all.

“This way. There should be food left for you if the other assholes haven’t robbed it from you.”

We walk back through the long hallway, under the staircase I saw last night, and turn left. Down another hallway, there are mismatched frames scattered all over the walls, and inside each one is a picture of a person, or persons, of all shapes and sizes, laughing and smiling. The organisation sends my brain scatty. At the bottom is a plaque with names and dates, so I assume they’re previous residents. I wonder if they had to live in the back, too. I can’t imagine anyone who’s stayed in there having a smile like that for promotional opportunities.

We come to two black doors with no panes of glass in them and a gold chain across the front of the two doors.

“Why are the doors chained?”

“To keep people inside, of course.”

“Surely that’s a fire hazard?”

“Hazard, schmazard. Gotta keep these bitches in line. ‘Sides, the rules, remember?”