(This book is now available in paperback and eBook on Amazon. Go to Amazon's search bar and type "Paraplegic" or "Troy Dearbourne" to locate them.)

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I WILL NEVER WALK AGAIN.

The courtyard before me is scattered with different ones rushing to their next destination; each one going their separate ways to and fro without a care, without a thought, taking their freedom for granted.

I envy such people.

What I wouldn't give to relive those days, the days when I still had my freedom. If I could go back in time, I would warn myself not to leave the house. I wouldn't go. I wouldn't get in that car. But I can't. This is who I am now. I'm stuck like this; forever reliving the pain of that day. Even now with how much time that has passed, I still tremble at the thought of that day and the changes it forced upon me. It haunts me. My eyes are weary; I can barely hold back the tears that threaten to fall. I didn't just lose my freedom that day, I lost someone, too. I lost a friend. A dear friend.

The rain splatters against the tall windows in front of me. The little droplets stick to the glass for a moment, gather into pools, then slide down—my eyes follow their movements as the process repeats. The sky is dark and dreary, much like my heart. Distant voices from those just like me echo throughout my empty mind, but I'm too fatigued to properly discern their words. I am numb. Numb to the pain. Numb to the people around me. Numb to life.

Is this how my life is to be, forever confined to the space of this chair like a dog on a short leash? Am I nothing more than a dog, an animal that can't escape the boundaries that encompass her? For right now, and possibly forever, that answer is yes.

I place a hand on the cold wheels of this chair and guide myself away from the windows. I must forget that day, but I know that I won't. I can't. The tragedies that unfolded stare at me in the mirror with each day that passes. They say there's hope—hope that I might get better, that I might one day recover, but I know they're just words of hollowed encouragement. I can't blame them, though. What else are they to say?

I maneuver through these brooding hallways, avoiding eye contact with those that pass by me. I'm not in the mood to chat. To be fair, I rarely am anymore. I just don't have the heart to engage in a conversation like I once did. It's laughable, really; the person that I use to be. It's shameful. My arrogance is to blame. Just minutes before it happened, the two of us were smiling, laughing, blissfully unaware of the horror that lurked around the next minute.

I lurch forward from the stabbing pain the memories bring. Bile burns my throat, but I swallow it back. It takes me a moment to gather myself. I'm suddenly breathless, drained of energy and in desperate need of sleep. But every time I shut my eyes, I'm warped back to that day.

I can still hear her screams!

As I lift my gaze, I notice of few of them staring at me; their faces filled with concern. I hate it when people stare at me. I hate the attention. It makes me feel like I'm different. I am different.

Without further delay, I reach for the wheels again and move down the hallway into the library. It will be quiet there. I yearn for quiet. Once I'm there, I pull a book off one of the lower bookshelves and open it to a random page. I'm not actually going to read it. I don't have the desire to read at the moment. I'm simply hoping that if someone sees me with my face buried in a book, they will march on by without bothering me. The last thing that I want is to be bothered.

A woman rolling a metal cart topped with medical supplements jerks it sideways; the wheels screech in protest. The vexatious sound startles me; I skittishly jump. Well, the half of me that still can jump. The sound reminds me of what happened to us that day, how the wheels of the car locked up, the way I struggled to maintain it within the white lines on the road. The asphalt was slick; it had been raining. I remember gripping the steering wheel with every ounce of strength that I had, but it ripped its stubborn self from my grasp, propelling us into the base of that tree.

Tears stain the surface of the book's page. I brush them away, smearing their existence over the printed letters.

There's a gap in my memory as to what happened next. Maybe it's because I've tried so very hard to forget, or perhaps it's because I'm still trying to run from the reality of it all. Either way, I know it's no dream or nightmare. This chair is proof, a vile reminder of what happened.

The sound of heels clacking across the floor approaches from behind me. I don't need to lift my head from the book in order to know who it is. I already know.

"McKenzie, it's time, sweetie." Mother's tone is filled with a little too much sympathy. My shoulder warms at her touch. She seems so tall anymore, but it isn't her who has changed. It's me. "Let's go." Her voice is barely a whisper. She grips the rubber handles of my chair and guides me out of the library.

The truth is I don't want to go. I'm not even sure I want to live anymore. Do I even have the right to live after what happened? Regardless of how I feel at this current moment, I don't argue with her. I throw the sweatshirt hoodie over my head and drop my chin to my chest, ignoring the ambient voices around me.

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