Two Weeks Later . . .

Confinement. I now understand the true meaning of the word. Unable to venture out on my own. Unable to be free. Unable to walk.

How could this happen to me? Me!

I once stood tall at the top of the cheer pyramid, but now . . . crippled. All I want to do is cry—cry until the tears run dry, then keep crying. I can only sit here, confined to this chair like a slave to its master. It feels weird—not feeling. Every time I look down at my legs it feels as if I should be able to move them. Instead, nothing.

I can't even wiggle my toes!

Aurora's grave is before me. I cringe every time my vision passes over her headstone. Worse than cringe; more like violent shudders. It still doesn't feel real. She was with me and I was with her just a few days ago. She can't be gone!

There was a funeral three days after the accident. I wasn't able to attend—obviously. The doctors wouldn't release me from the hospital until just yesterday. The last time that I saw Aurora's face was just before the accident; her young, petrified face. That image—her face—it's burned into my mind. She was so scared. I can still picture the fear that was in her eyes when we were helplessly tossed around the car. I jerk my head, hoping to shake loose the memories from my mind. It doesn't help.

The autopsy report showed that she suffered extreme head and spinal injuries. I don't know to what degree; the doctor's were deliberately vague, but they said the tree limb sailed through the windshield and penetrated her torso. My body trembles at the thought. I weakly combat the welling tears, but quickly give up the fight—they cascade down my cheeks. I feel nauseous, enraged, shattered, and desolate all at the same time.

It's your fault she's gone. Your fault! Why did you do it? You knew better! It was just a text message; a stupid, stupid text. You didn't need to answer it. She would still be here if it weren't for you!

It's been two weeks since the accident. The doctors told me I was lucky I made it out alive. I don't feel very lucky. They said that my T10 and T12 vertebrates were shattered in the crash, resulting in paralysis from the waist down. They went on to tell me that it wasn't likely that I would ever walk again. I don't remember the conversation very well. My mind was still foggy and I was jacked up on morphine, but they said there is a less than five percent chance that I will ever get my legs back. Funny, I remember that part quite clearly. I would say that was the worst day of my life, but that doesn't even begin to describe it. I woke up from a four day coma to find that I'm not only paralyzed, but I'm responsible for my best friend's death.

WHY DID YOU DO IT, McKENZIE!

I lurch forward, feeling the slimy sensation of vomit slide up my throat, but I swallow it back. I'm so nauseous. I can't accept what's happened. I keep hoping and praying that this is all just some sort of nightmare and that I'll wake up any moment now. But it isn't. This is real. And it's haunting me.

I hear the crack of pine needles being stepped on; mother's hand slides over my shoulder next. She doesn't say anything, which appreciate. I really don't want to talk right now. I don't want to live either. I don't want to do anything. I halfway expected her to start consoling me, telling me that everything will be alright and that we'll make it through, but she doesn't. We just sit here—well, I sit, she stands—in silence, gazing at the ghastly sight of Aurora's grave.

The thing that's most shocking to see is the death date engraved into her headstone. I know we all die at some point, but there's something so foreboding about seeing a death date. It's like you're being reminded that your time is coming and that death is waiting for you, ready to take you away from this world at any given moment. When you're young and carefree, you don't give thought to such things. Why would you? You have your whole life ahead of you. That's how it should have been at least.

After a long silence, mother speaks, "We'll get through this. I promise." Her voice is quiet and shaky. I refuse to look up and meet her gaze because I know I will find her eyes red and shiny with a wet trail down her cheeks. I don't know whether or not she truly believes what she is saying or if she's just giving me hollowed encouragement. Right now, I don't see how it's possible to get through this. My life is going to be completely different. Moving on without my best friend is a tragedy all on its own, but doing so as a plegic . . . yeah, not possible. I don't really care, though. I've lost the heart to care. I'm numb. I don't want to live. I don't deserve to live. I want to die.

A couple of days after I woke up from my coma, some of the Blue Jays came to visit me in the hospital. It was so awkward. I could tell they didn't really know what to say. They just kind of hovered around my bed, patting my legs from under the hospital sheets, exchanging expressions of get well soon. Tess brought me a photograph of the Blue Jays' photo shoot. When I realized that I would never again be a cheerleader, I started to cry. Then she started crying. Then the rest of the girls started crying. It was a mess.

I kept hoping Xander would stop by, then I would quickly tell myself it's for the best that he didn't. I didn't want him to see me like that. I don't really want him to see me now. He's not going to stay with me. We're over. He's going to walk out of my life; I know it. I'll never find someone. I'll never get married being like this—a freak. I feel like crying just thinking about it. My chance at ever finding true love is ruined. No one is going to love someone who's handicapped. That only happens in fairy tales or Hallmark movies.

Mother moves her hand from my shoulder and runs her fingers through my hair. It's a tattered mess. I haven't fixed it since graduation day, not even so much as run a brush through it. I used to spend at least an hour in front of the mirror almost daily. I don't think I've spent five minutes in front of one since the accident. I must look like a wreck; bags under my eyes, flat hair, no makeup. Mother has been dressing me each day since I can no longer do it on my own. I basically lie in bed each morning, enslaved within its four posts until she comes to help me. I can't even get out of bed on my own. I can't go to the bathroom on my own either. I have to wear this bag at all times. The doctors called it an ostomy pouch, but it's basically a colostomy bag. I can't believe at my age I have to wear one of these. It's so humiliating! This isn't the life I envisioned for myself. I thought I would graduate high school, go to college, become a professional photographer, move to New York where Xander and I would get married and buy an apartment somewhere in the city surrounded by the twinkling of skyline lights and overlooking the Statue of Liberty.

But instead, I poop in a bag.

* * *

Mother grips the rubber handles of my wheelchair and guides me away from Aurora's grave, but I clamp my hands around the wheels, locking them from within my grip. I can't allow myself to leave Aurora. It feels wrong to do so. I don't turn around, but that doesn't prevent me from feeling mother's sympathetic eyes stare at the back of my head. I don't want to start crying again. I know that's what will happen if I meet her gaze.

After thirty seconds and just as many deep breaths, I release my grip on the wheels one by one, finger by finger until I'm not holding on anymore. Mother waits a moment before gently steering me away. Aurora's grave grows smaller with distance as she guides me towards the cemetery's iron gate entrance.

Aurora. I'm abandoning her. She's gone! I'm never going to see her again. The memories we shared; the laughs, the tears, the bad grades in elementary, the slumber parties in middle school, the time that she made cookies with Play-doh and told me it was edible, the summer vacations, the holidays—the memories.

I start crying again.

The ride back to the parking lot is bumpy. These wheels aren't made for off-road terrain. From behind me, I can hear mother's breathing; it's labored and breathy. I feel bad she has to push me around in this thing. I'm not overweight, but I know I'm not completely weightless either.

When we got here, father and August had decided to stay inside the van. I guess they felt I needed space to process everything that's happened. The van is this big box-shaped thing made by Mercedes; all black with tinted windows. Father bought it two days after my accident, basically for my sake, knowing that I wouldn't be able to fit inside a small vehicle anymore—not with this wheelchair.

Mother pulls me up to the rear of the van and opens the double doors. She pushes a button on the remote key and a mechanical ramp unfolds and lays flat on the ground. I grip the wheels and propel myself forward, trying to gain enough speed to surmount the ramp. About halfway up, I lose strength in my arms and start sliding backward. You know that moment when you lean back in a chair and tip it on its rear two legs, teetering for a moment, then all at once you nearly have a heart attack as you almost fall backward? That's what happened. Well, almost. Fortunately, mother lunges forward to catch me just before I fall, then helps me the rest of the way up the ramp.

It's really spacious inside. I can fit at least two of these wheelchairs side by side, maybe even three. There's a grid built into the floor, which was designed specifically for the purpose of locking my wheelchair in place so I don't slide around while the vehicle is in motion. I just have to line the wheels up with the grid and push forward; the grid tightens around the base of my wheels and locks the chair in place. I don't even want to begin to think how much this thing costs. One hundred thousand dollars? Two hundred? Father has recently taken on a few more cases at work. I guess it's because of my medical bills. He stares at me in the reflection of the rearview mirror, squinting just a little. His forlorn expression is to be expected, I suppose. I don't really know what to say to him, so I just look away.

August is sitting next to me. We left his booster seat in our other vehicle, so this is his first time riding, as he put it, like a "big boy". Normally, mother would have put up a fight, saying he needs to be a year older before we let him ride without it, but with everything that's happened to me, she didn't argue. I can tell she's exhausted. Knowing how much of a burden I am to her, to father, and even to August, saddens me.

August doesn't raise his head from his PSP as I enter the van. That's probably for the best. I honestly don't know if he understands the severity of what all has happened to me. We told him when I came home from the hospital that I wouldn't be walking around anymore, but I'm not sure how much his seven-year-old brain can comprehend.

Father navigates the big van out of the parking lot and in the direction of our house. I let my gaze wander from one object to the next out the side window. The sky doesn't seem quite as blue as it once did. The trees aren't as lively a green as they once were. And the birds don't sound as chipper as they used to. Big, fluffy clouds form overhead. For a moment, one of them looks like Aurora's face. Her smile is just as energetic as it always was, and her eyes big and true. The clouds continue to move, distorting the image, and finally disbanding into smaller particles.

Mother turns around from the front seat. "Have you thought any more about college, McKenzie?"

I'm taken aback by her question. "I'm not going." My tone is sharp. I don't wish to continue the conversation, so I return my thoughtless gaze to the window.

Mother and father whisper something back and forth. I don't care to listen, so I block them out by inserting a pair of earbuds into my ears and play music from my phone. As I navigate to the music app, my finger accidentally clicks on the photo gallery icon. A photograph pops up on the screen—it's the one Aurora and I took on our last day of school. I forgot she had texted it to me. I stare at the photograph for a long moment, my eyes locked with her image, tracing the outline of her face with my finger. She looked so cute in her pigtails and blue pompoms in hand. I can't believe I'll never see her again.

Don't cry, McKenzie. Don't! It won't do any good.

Mother turns around again. "Sweetheart, I know things will be different for you, but that doesn't mean you can't live a normal life. Your father and I think it's best you still go to college, just maybe someplace a little closer to home. We'll check on some of the local universities. They may even have a handicap program where you'll be surrounded by other students just like you. Wouldn't that be great?"

I yank the earbuds from my ears. "You're kidding me, right? Mom, look at me—I'm paralyzed! There is no normal living for me. I don't even know what normal is anymore. It's over. My life is over! I'm not going to college. Get that through your head!" She looks at father and frowns, her upper lip disappearing into her lower lip. I jam the earbuds back into my ears and remain silent for the rest of the drive.

When we finally arrive home, I hurriedly unfasten my wheels from the grid and lower the ramp. I want to show them I don't need their help. I'm not a charity case. I can still do things on my own. I'm not completely helpless!

I slap my hands around the rims of the wheels and thrust myself forward; unfortunately, with a little too much force. I fly down the ramp at a steep angle. My muscles tense up and I freeze. The edge of my wheel drops off the side of the ramp and I tumble to the driveway; my head slams against the concrete with a sickening thud. I blink rapidly; a spectrum of stars floats throughout my vision and my head throbs.

"Oh, sweetie!" Mother hops out of the van and runs over to me. Father rushes over as well. He wraps his arms around my waist and she grabs my feet. Together, they pick me up and place me back in my wheelchair. All the while, I feel embarrassed, mortified. I wanted to show them I didn't need their help, but I ended up accomplishing the exact opposite. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?" She brushes the messy strands of hair from my eyes and cradles my face.

I jerk my head away. "No! No, I'm not okay. I will never be okay!" I don't wait for her to say anything else; I shove the wheels in the direction of The Bluff with urgency. The wind picks up and slaps me in the face. Black paste covers my palms from turning the wheels hard and fast. My arms ache from the motions, but I don't stop. I don't ever want to stop.

I glide across our backyard and into the fairway of the sixteenth hole. It's nearly dusk. The course is empty. Sprinklers shoot spurts of water across the grass. I don't bother to avoid them; they shower me with musty water as I roll through, the wheels leaving tire tracks in the moist turf.

I come to a halt at the summit of The Bluff. The view is breathtaking. Aurora and I always loved coming out here, especially at this hour. We used to lie on the grass for hours and watch the stars show themselves one by one. My heart writhes at such reminiscence and it feels like I'm suffocating. I want nothing more than to rid myself of those blissful memories, to rid myself of the pain.

You're just a burden to your family, McKenzie. You're of no use to anyone now. No one wants you around. No one wants the responsibility of caring for you. They're better off without you. You'd be doing them a service by not being alive. After what you've done, you deserve such a fate.

It would be so easy to just shove myself off this cliff and end it all.

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