Ruin

by Clarissa Wild

I sit down beside her on a stool and raise a brow. “I’m great, but you’re not telling the truth.”

  She bites her cheek, like she always does when she’s trying to process something. “I don’t know …”

  “C’mon, you can tell me,” I say as I reach for her hand.

  I’ve never been so bold before … but there’s a first time for everything.

  As my skin touches hers, a current runs through my hand, electrifying my body, making me aware of the warmth that connects us … and the pain that divides us.

  Her brows twitch, and she takes a breath. “The doctor told me I’m not allowed to put any pressure or weight on my leg for twelve weeks.” She gazes at her immobile leg, the muscles losing more density every single day. Her eyes tear up a little, but she pushes them away too. “Twelve whole weeks of not even being able to start walking again. I’m supposed to stay in a wheelchair for twelve weeks.”

  “Oh, no …” I squeeze her hand. “But you’ve got crutches, right? You can’t use those?”

  “I don’t have a cast. If I fall, I’ll ruin the operation they did. I don’t want to break my leg again … and I’m a mess when it comes to walking with crutches.” She looks away at the window, where the trees are already losing all their leaves. This autumn is a bleak one for her.

  But I’m not going to let her feel like she can’t do anything.

  So I get up, grab ahold of the wheelchair handles, and turn her away from the window.

  “What are you doing?” she squeals.

  “Taking you out for a spin,” I say.

  “What?” Her voice rises a few pitches, making me laugh.

  I rush her out the door and make a sharp left turn. Her hands clutch the wheelchair as I race her through the hallways, cutting corners everywhere.

  “Jesus, you’re going so fast!” She leans back as far as she can.

  “Exactly the point!” I reply, running even faster.

  We’re going so fast that we’re creating wind, and it’s blowing my hair in all kinds of directions, but I don’t care. I keep running, ignoring all the nurses who tell me to go slow and be careful. I run until she stops taking in gulps of air and starts laughing.

  The sound of her happiness has me floating on air, and for a moment, it allows me to forget about my troubles too.

  By the time her physical therapist shows up near her room, I’m all spent and so is she.

  “Wow, that was awesome!” she says, a big smile on her face.

  I’m still trying to get some air into my lungs. “Yeah? Good, because if it wasn’t, I’m gonna go back and do it all again.”

  “No, no, my physical therapist is here,” she says. I know she hates having to make people wait, and I completely understand.

  “But that won’t stop me from putting a smile on your face,” I say.

  She turns around and looks at me, making me blush again.

  Goddammit. Why do I keep saying those things out loud?

  “Thank you,” she says, placing her hand on top of mine. “For doing that.”

  I smile at her. “My pleasure.”

  I help her get up from the wheelchair and back into bed so she can go on the device that the physical therapist brought. It’s some sort of machine called a continuous passive motion device, or CPM for short. It forces her leg to bend, so she doesn’t have to do the muscle work but still gets the proper bending. Otherwise, her knee will lock. Not that I understand much of it, I just know it works. Her leg has to be strapped onto it while she’s half-naked and only wearing underwear, so when the physical therapist indicates it’s time to pull off her pants, that’s my cue to go.

  However, Maybell grabs my hand and stops me from leaving.

  “Could you stay … please?” she asks.

  “Um … are you sure?” I swallow away the lump in my throat and look at the physical therapist. “Is that okay, if I’m here?”

  “Sure, as long as you don’t touch the device. She needs to do this on her own.”

  “He won’t,” Maybell says. “I just don’t like being alone.”

  “Oh, but you’re not alone,” the physical therapist muses. “You still have Mr. Chang to keep you company.”

  Maybell glances at me and makes a ghost-like face, and I have to try my best not to burst out into laughter right there.

  Mr. Chang. I think she means Mr. Pee-His-Pants-All-Day-Long.

  But at least the conversations can be interesting with a man who doesn’t know where he is. It’s always surprising what he comes up with for an excuse as to why he’s in the hospital. One day, it’s because he’s selling his wares to the patients, and other times, it’s because the Nazis captured him and brought him to this camp.

  Yep, his mind is nowhere to be found, which makes it all the more hilarious, unfortunately. I shouldn’t be laughing, but the way Maybell talks about it always cracks me up.

  “But … If you’re sure. He can stay, of course,” the physical therapist says after clearing her throat.

  I wink at Maybell as she struggles to keep the laughter inside.

  The physical therapist lifts the heavy device onto the bed as Maybell scoots aside. Then she asks, “Can you take off your pants then?”

  “Ahh … I’ll turn around then …” I mutter, swiftly spinning on my heels so I can look out the window and at Mr. Chang, who seems to be reading the same newspaper he was yesterday.

  I guess that’s a benefit of forgetting everything; you can read the same thing fifteen times and never get bored … experience the same surprise over and over again. It’s like playing peekaboo with a child; the kid always finds it just as funny as the million times he saw it before.

  “Done,” Maybell says, her voice pulling me from my thoughts.

  As I turn around, my face turns completely red at the sight of her naked leg and panties. I suck on the bottom of my lip and reach for the chair, immediately sitting down to hide my hard-on. Fuck. This is so wrong.

  “What’s wrong?” Maybell asks as the physical therapist starts up the machine.

  “Nothing,” I lie. I don’t want to lie to her, but what else am I supposed to do? This is the most awkward hard-on ever.

  Why can’t my dick ever not react? It’s just a girl’s leg. I’ve seen plenty before, although most of them were when I watched porn. Except this is Maybell Fairweather’s naked leg. The girl I’ve always dreamed of.

  That doesn’t help one bit.

  “I’ll put it on sixty degrees, okay?” The physical therapist taps a few buttons. “There you go.”

  The CPM machine starts to move, and her leg slowly bends.

  “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes to take it off again. If you want to stop the machine for any reason, just press this button.” The physical therapist points at a big, red button near Maybell’s fingers.

  “I’ve done it before,” she muses. “I know how it works.”

  “All right.” The physical therapist nods and then leaves the room.

  Then there’s only silence.

  And … a half-hard dick.

  Well, could this be anymore more awkward?

  Maybell’s face scrunches up when the device reaches the sixty degrees, and she hisses. The sound of pain immediately softens my dick, and I take the opportunity of the avoided embarrassment to scoot my chair closer to her. Nothing’s going to stop me from being here for her. Not even a floppy dick.

  Her face relaxes once the device goes down, but when it goes up again the hiss returns.

  “It hurts,” she mutters.

  I take her hand and hold it tight in mine. What else can I give her besides a hand to crush and a shoulder to cry on? I’d give her my life if I could. If only.

  “It’s okay. Pain means that it’s trying to heal,” I say.

  “I know … but I don’t know if I can keep doing this.” She squeezes my hand as the pain returns.

  “Yes, you can. Ignore the pain. Focus on getting better.
” I inch closer to her on my chair.

  “How can I focus on getting better when the pain is constant? Always there to remind me of what happened?” she says as the CPM machine lowers again.

  “Because it’ll get less and less until you barely notice it,” I answer.

  “How do you know?” she asks, the desperation in her voice splitting me in half.

  I search for the words, but I can’t find them. “I don’t … know.”

  I bite my lip after seeing the defeated look on her face. She starts biting the inside of her cheek again, and her eyes scatter around the room. I know what she’s doing. I’ve seen it before. She’s thinking about all the possible outcomes for this disaster, none of them positive.

  She’s thinking about her life—how she used to dance, how she used to be able to go wherever she wanted, and how she lost it all with the snap of a finger.

  But I won’t allow her to think it’s lost forever. I won’t let her feel down. Not her.

  Squeezing her hand even harder, I tell her, “Look at me, Maybell.” Her eyes zoom in on mine, my voice resonating with her mind. “I promise you, you’ll be able to do anything you want. Someday, you will. It might take a while, but you’ll do it all again. Without pain.”

  “Even when I can’t walk?” Her voice fluctuates as she struggles to keep the tears inside.

  “Even then. And if not … I’ll help you. Whether it’s standing, walking, jumping, or even dancing.” I smile gently to try to soothe her. “Every step of the way.”

  Regrets

  Maybell

  “Don’t look back. Just keep looking forward,” the physical therapist says as I struggle to walk on the crutches.

  The phrase sounds familiar, and I know exactly why.

  It’s what I told myself just minutes before my last dance practice.

  Hours before awakening in the hospital.

  Minutes and hours that changed my life forever.

  I put one crutch in front of the other, trying to keep a steady pace, but every time, I almost tumble over. I’m so bad at determining where to put them before I lift my foot. I never realized how difficult it is to walk with just one leg when you cannot even rely on the other leg to catch you when you fall. It makes you doubt yourself and your own body.

  “Just take it easy,” the physical therapist says, laughing a little. “No need to rush.”

  “I just want to get on with it,” I say.

  “I know you want to learn to walk, but you need to take it slow. Otherwise, you might fall.”

  “But I’ve finally gotten the hang of it,” I say, showing off my skills by taking another leap.

  I lean against the wall for support as I lose my balance.

  “Be careful!” she says, pushing me up into standing position again. “Geez, you’re trying to run off without me, aren’t you?”

  I laugh. “My dad always said I was a hot little pepper.”

  She shakes her head. “You’re a weird one, aren’t you?”

  I laugh. “Yep.”

  I’m not going to deny the truth. She doesn’t even know half the weirdness that I am.

  “You’re doing great, Maybell!” Alexander shouts from across the hall.

  I smile at him and let the physio guide me back to my room. “Keep doing this as much as you can,” she says.

  “Can I do this at home too?”

  “Of course, you can.”

  “Well … how long before I can go home then?” I ask, hoping she might have the answer.

  The doctor’s been avoiding the question for days.

  “I don’t know …” She scratches the back of her head. “Maybe a few more days. Maybe a week.”

  “Aw … But what if I train harder?”

  “Don’t overdo it,” she says. “You don’t want to make it worse, now, do you?”

  “Yeah, I know …” I nod, a bit disappointed. But I guess there’s no other way than to sit and wait it out. I can’t risk making the injury to my leg even worse than it already is.

  “So what now?” I ask.

  “We’re finished for today, so you can do whatever you want,” the physical therapist says.

  “Oh …” Well, I didn’t expect that.

  “You want to continue walking with the crutches, don’t you?” Alexander asks as he peeks around the corner.

  I nod at him, but the physical therapist immediately sighs. “Sorry, but I really have to go. I’ve got four other patients waiting for me, and I’m already running late.” She checks her watch.

  “No problem. I can help her with it,” Alexander interjects.

  I turn my head to him and give him the wide-eyed look.

  “What? It’ll be fine,” he says.

  “Well, if you really want to …” the physical therapist says.

  “If I can, I want to try,” I say.

  “Sure then, go ahead.” She shakes my hand. “See you next time, okay? You’re doing great.”

  “Thanks,” I say as she leaves.

  Alexander stands in the door opening and holds out his hands, beckoning me. “C’mon then.”

  “What?”

  “Walk.” He grins. Like it’s no big deal.

  I make a face. “Like it’s that easy.”

  “It’s as easy as you want it to be.” He wriggles his brows the way he always does when he’s challenging me. “Or are you afraid?”

  “Pftt … You wish.” I put my one leg forward as well as my crutches and make the step.

  “Another one,” he says, taking a step back himself.

  I do it again and so does he.

  I keep walking after him, taking one step forward as he takes one back.

  It’s like a never-ending game to him, but I’m not going to stop waggling until I can slap that damn smirk off his face with one of my crutches.

  “You’d better watch out, dude,” I say.

  “Or what?” he taunts. “You’re going to run after me?”

  “I’m so going to probe your ass with this stick,” I growl, swinging it in front of me.

  “Sorry, but my ass is a one-way street,” he muses.

  “Tough luck because your ass is mine,” I retort.

  “Whoa, this whole conversation just got a whole lot weirder.”

  “You think this is weird?” I laugh, not giving a crap. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

  I step forward and try to tackle him with my crutch.

  He jumps backward. “Hey, be careful there, brittle lady. You might break another bone if you’re not careful.”

  “Who are you calling brittle lady, Mr. I-twitch-when-a-girl-touches-my-hand?”

  His eyes widen, and red dots appear on his neck again.

  Gotcha.

  “Yeah, I saw that,” I taunt.

  “You didn’t see anything, May,” he says, narrowing his eyes at me.

  “Oh, so we’re talking nicknames now, are we?” I retort as I take another step toward him. “Alex.”

  “Anything to get you to shut up and walk,” he quips.

  “You just don’t want me to mention the fact that you blushed when I touched you,” I say, stepping even closer.

  “Maybe instead of talking, you should spend all of that leftover energy on getting closer to me because you’re never going to catch up this way.”

  Determined, I take a bigger leap. “I’ll show you, Alex Wright.”

  “C’mon then. Jesus said walk, dammit.”

  I laugh as I get near him and try to poke him with my crutch, missing him by a hair.

  “Miss!” He sticks out his tongue.

  The more I chase after him on my crutches, the less I feel the pain in my leg. “Yeah, you keep outrunning the handicapped girl.”

  “I don’t see a handicapped girl.” He raises his brow and shoulders, playing innocent. “Unless you mean that El Handi-chap-o lying in the room next door. She’s a real handful.”

  “
El Handi-chap-o?” My jaw drops.

  Did he just compare me to a Drug Lord?

  “Now you’ve gone and done it,” I growl playfully.

  I take the farthest step I’ve taken so far, but by blindly falling for my own courage, I forgot one thing—the slippery floor.

  One misplaced crutch and there I go.

  In a split second, I lose my balance, and I’m headed facefirst for the floor. However, Alexander rushes to me faster than I can call for help, grappling me with both hands as one of the crutches tumbles to the ground. I hover between his arms; my body is completely limp against his as I struggle with the pain.

  I inhale a panicked breath as he holds on tight, bringing me back to my feet. But my good foot now feels like it’s sprained, and I can barely stand on it.

  “Shit,” he mutters.

  “Help,” I say. The word has never come out of my mouth this hopelessly.

  With some kind of superhuman strength, he manages to hold onto me and grab my crutch off the ground, giving it to me so I can hold onto it for support.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I shake my head as he helps me stay upright. “I can’t walk.”

  “Hold onto your crutches,” he says with a driven voice.

  Suddenly, I’m lifted up into the air.

  He’s carrying me … all the way back to my room.

  Sweat mingles with tears as he gives all his energy to me, and I don’t understand. He’s not muscular or very fit. This costs him all his strength, all that he has, yet he still does it. The tenacity in his face overwhelms me for a moment as I silently watch him struggle to put me in my bed.

  When I’m down, he bends over to take in long, deep breaths.

  He’s completely wiped out.

  And all because I didn’t stop.

  Because I couldn’t see and listen to my own limits.

  Because I was stupid, I almost broke my leg again.

  “I …” He’s still wheezing, trying to get air into his lungs. “I’m sorry.”

  “No …” I say. “It’s not your fault.”

  Out of nowhere, he stands up straight and yells. “Yes, it is! It’s always my fault!”

  The sudden rage in his eyes makes me slam my lips shut and lean back into the pillows.