Entry Eighty-Nine

The Wicker Chair From Down Stairs-Version 1

SYNOPSIS(originally posted on Facebook in response to a comment)-There once was a bed ridden young man who feels like he can't do anything with his life. One day his parents bring up this wicker chair from the down stairs living room and put it in his room facing his window, in case he is ever able to move from the bed to the chair. This chair represents physical and mental struggle as, every day, the boy attempts to get out of bed just to get to the chair. His best friend becomes his love interest, he eventually makes it to the chair (representing a huge mental and physical achievement), and then 2 days after, dies because of the added strain to his body.

Story Style: Journal

Maine Character: Darby

Thursday January 1, 2009

This is a stupid idea. A stupid idea presented by my stupid therapist. The one who thinks he can scoop out my brain, look at it under a plastic children's magnifying glass, and asses every aspect of my psyche. I have to distinguish because there is also the therapist who thinks that the words "you can do it" have some sort of magical property that will cure me and I will feel below my waist again.

So I've been seeing this brain guy for about a week now and he says to me, "hey it's the new year soon. I think it would be a good idea for you to keep a journal for the year. That way, at the end we can see your progress." This is like the one thing that these guys learned in school that they remember. Journals somehow make everything better. Well, screw him.

Yet here I am. Writing away. I guess I do it because I know this will count as "progress points" to him and maybe that will appease my parents.

So, I guess I should just...introduce myself? I don't know. Who is going to read this? Maybe some futuristic civilization will dig it up years from now and it will become their bible.

That civilization is screwed.

My name is Darby.

My parents say they liked it because somewhere they heard it means Freedom. I think it's a very loose translation. I also think they told me that because they didn't want to admit that my mom has a Sean Connery fetish and one of her favorite movies is Darby O'Gill and the Little People.

So I'm stuck with it.

Pretty hilarious if you ask me. My name is freedom. The one thing I don't have. I am forever trapped in this cage of a body. In this cage of a mind. All because I got the best Christmas present ever: A motorcycle.

It was from my brother. He's this mechanical genius and for Christmas he fixed up this bike for me. My old piece of crap car had died 6 months earlier and I was resigned to public transportation. I nearly cried when I unwrapped the keys.

Best. Christmas. Ever.

I had to give it a go THAT DAY, of course. Lucky for me we hadn't had snow all winter. Just blinding cold. But I didn't care. My little sister had gotten me a biker jacket which would keep the wind at bay (Guess what my parents got me? A helmet and enough reflectors to make me a lighthouse for cars). And so, after all the family greetings and formalities had been made and we had all stuffed ourselves with Christmas ham, I took her for a spin.

It was amazing, let me tell you. The best feeling I have ever experienced, I will probably ever experience in my now cursed life. That kind of freedom, speed, power-It was intoxicating.

Too bad I wasn't the only one intoxicated that night. I saw the light and it was this vibrant green color, accented by the bows and tinsel decorating the traffic signal poles. Our town is over the top like that. Everything has to look festive, including the traffic lights. Strings of street lights, even stop lights and all that. And then there was this bright blazing red Ferrari slicing through the intersection.

Slicing through me.

Then I'm in the hospital. White sterile blankets, beeping monitors, and everything else. And I can't feel below my waist.

Best. Christmas. Ever.

So there it is. On the most joyous day of the year, when I felt more free than I ever have in my life; a time where I truly could live up to my name, everything was taken from me.

So, Mr. I have a PhD in telling you what you think. If you are reading this, why don't you stick it where the sun don't shine. I'll spend the rest of my days brooding and moping, thank you very much.

It seems like the only appropriate thing to do.