Page 4 of Downpour

“Ninety-one point nine,” he said.

I’d won.

So why wasn’t the crowd cheering?

TWO MONTHS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

I was fully convincedthat whoever stippled popcorn ceilings did it in patterns that mimicked those psychology tests. For sixtyendless days, I’d been trapped in this childhood bedroom turned prison.

Sixty motherfucking days of pissing in a bedpan. Sixty excruciating days of Mom feeding me like an infant and wiping the drool and crumbs from my chin. Sixty insufferable days of my brothers carrying my body around the goddamn house just so I could see something beyond these four fucking walls.

Sixty days of wishing I had died in that arena.

FOUR MONTHS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

My hands itchedlike a thousand fire ants were crawling under my skin. It was annoying as hell, and it had been happening more and more after each visit to my sadistic physical therapist. Probably because she took joy in electrocuting me.

According to her, functional electrical stimulation was supposed to help me regain use of my body. So far all it did was make me itch so bad I wanted to claw my own flesh off.

I stared at my useless hands, desperate to scratch but unable to do anything about it. No way in hell was I going to call someone in here just to scratch my goddamn hand.

Then again, I was tired of being awake. I wanted to close the curtains, lay down, and pretend I didn’t exist.

Sleeping was the closest I could get to being dead. Maybe that’s why I craved it so much.

Muscle atrophy be damned.

I’d waste away in this room, slowly going mad staring at the fucking popcorn ceiling, counting the bumps until my mind turned to mush.

SIX MONTHS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

“The surgery went as expected.Like we all discussed during the trial screening, it’s extremely invasive. The recovery is going to be rough. We’ll continue to monitor the electrodes that were implanted along his spine for the next few days to make sure the surgery site starts healing and there are no complications. If all goes well, we’ll be able to work with his care team to set up the pulse generator and start the rehab program.”

I stared blankly at the wall as the surgeon updated my mom.

The surgeon sighed. “This kind of stimulation therapy is brand new andveryexperimental. It’s one of just a few clinical trials in the world. I can’t promise anything. We simply don’t have the data to know what will happen.”

Did the risk really matter at this point? Might as well be a lab rat for this experimental science shit. Not like my body was good for anything else.

EIGHT MONTHS AFTER THE ACCIDENT

The itchin my hand flared up again. I swore under my breath and wrenched my eyes from the TV screen. The channel had shifted from the morning news to some unbearable soap opera. I hadn’t bothered changing it with the clicker my brother, Nate, bought online.

He’d been so goddamn excited to set up that curved metal arm for me.As if I should be thrilled to change the channel by biting down on a button with my teeth.

I’d rather endure the melodramatic garbage.

I groaned and let my head fall back against the pillow, drained from the physical therapy session. I hadn’t done much beyond being twisted and prodded like a lifeless doll, but it had still worn me out.

Christian had dragged me to the PT appointment today, going on about the benefits of therapy for his own mental well-being and the wonders the family counselor he took my nieces to had done for all of them.

Apparently, his therapist had an available appointment if I felt like opening up.

I didn’t.

What was the point in dissecting the fact that I was quadriplegic. That I was unable to move an inch beyond my neck because I had to ride one more bull, had to claim one more championship? Because I just couldn’t quit while I was ahead.

I didn’t need to dig into any of it. It was what it was.

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