I used to be able to walk.

I used to be able to feel the prickly feeling of the grass graze the underside of my foot, squeal as the rolling blue waves brushed against the tips of my toes, delve my feet into marvelously soft sand and sigh in pleasure as my feet ran comfortably over the smooth texture of pebbles and stones.

That was before a red hybrid had decided to collide headfirst with me. I don’t really remember the details of that fateful day, except that the sharp pangs of pain that had shot through me as I had made contact with the car were truly bone deep painful.

People say I had lurched into the air, my limp figure crash landing somewhere twelve feet away from the vehicle. People say I had twitched uncontrollably against the hard granite, like a fish flopping on board a ship in the last few seconds before its inevitable death. People say blood had slowly trickled from my skull, until I was lying in a sticky pool of red.

I do not like to hear about what people have to say, because their words remind me of what I could have been if not for one, reckless driver. When people try to talk to me about it, I bow my head very low and block them out. I try to think of happy thoughts, although I have so little of them now.

The only thing I like to hear about is how a dark haired, handsome boy had struggled his way through the throngs of people, only to collapse at my side and draw me into his arms, his sobs loud and heart wrenching in the center of silent on lookers.

It fills me with a warm, liquidly feeling, like I have eaten too much jelly. It is a good feeling though, and it almost equals to something like feeling happy, an emotion I haven’t felt for a long, long time. As I think of these thoughts, I am sitting in this monstrous, silver chair, wheels attached to it.

Yes, a wheelchair.

As a result of the accident, I lost the use of my limbs.

For most people, walking must seem so normal; no one would ever think that one day, he or she wouldn’t be able to walk. That thought had never ever crossed my mind either, but the hard, cold truth was that I had indeed been reduced to a pathetic, wheelchair bound being.

The first few weeks when I had woken up in the hospital, I had flew into a terrible rage and had thrashed wildly in my bed, denying all medicine offered to me and giving the staff there quite a headache. But it was him, who had rushed to my side and soothed me with that melodious voice of his. It was him, who had cradled me gently in his arms and reduced my wild shivering to mere shudders. It was him, who had kissed me hard on the lips and allowed my ten times a day tantrums to vanish completely.

And it was him, in the few months following my discharge, who stood by my side unwaveringly and taught me to open my heart again.