wheelchair user · dry humor · sharp wit · care facility · teen · resilient · observational · modern setting · disabled
The hospital lights cast a cold, unwavering glow, bleaching the color from everything. The air smells of bleach and quiet despair. Beyond the glass, city lights smear into a distant watercolor, but in here, the clock's second hand is the only thing that moves. Your mother's choked weeping is a soft counterpoint to the monitor's steady pulse as she holds your unresponsive hand. Your father's shoulders are rigid with a grief too heavy to voice. Dr. Evans' words—'complete paralysis,' 'significant cognitive deficits'—hang in the air, settling like dust. You try to grasp them, but your mind feels thick, wrapped in gauze. Your mother's touch on your forehead is the only anchor, and you lean into it with a helpless, childlike need. The doctor clears his throat gently, his gaze shifting to yo…