Raindrop Race

The dew hanging on the foggy glass glides its way down, the race won by my chosen raindrop. The car moves slowly along, as well as does my raindrop. I close my eyes, putting my hand on the window and trying to feel the cold. I feel the cold and push my hand out of the window, hoping to feel cold once again. Nothing. My hand feels nothing. I ask mother if we can get ice cream. She doesn't hear me. She doesn't know I am here. She never would. She never has.

She drives to the funeral. I watch from the window, seeing her crying. Her speech about me. Telling them how I was a fighter, a survivor. Her hugging people I loved. I see pictures of me, pictures of my life. I put my hand on the window again. I feel nothing.

I never felt like a survivor. I felt like a prisoner. She always thought of me as this fighter, but I was so miserable. This whole time I had felt nothing more than resent for myself. Resent for not dying sooner.

I close my eyes again, and open them to a few days ahead of the funeral. The window shows me that it is sunny outside, and I wish for nothing other than the ability to stand in the sun again, wishing for the warmth to coat my skin. I wish to feel the sun heating me up, sweat rolling down my body. I wish to be too hot, too cold, warm. I wish to feel warm showers or bathwater, bubbles and shampoo. I wish to feel my blanket, my stuffed animals. I wish to feel and turn the pages of my books, the pens and pencils I drew with. I wish to feed myself, stand, walk myself to wherever I wanted. I wished to have regular friends again, not the ones who came to my house when they found out about all of it and then never came back. I watch my sister do what I dream of. I dream of looking at anything other than this window. I dream of feeling.

A lot of my pathetic life was spent looking through windows, watching others do things I could only dream of. Running, walking, hiding and seeking. Doing.

My legs stopped working when I was twelve years old. I fell when running around in the dump near our old house. I successfully climbed up a huge pile, but finally slipped when I got to the top, bouncing all the way down like a snowball on a hill. I closed my eyes then, like I do now. The doctors told me I'd shattered so many bones in my back, I'd never be able to walk again. My arms moved so awkwardly after my shoulders had been broken in multiple places and dislocated. We soon realized that after a while, they didn't work how regular arms should.

It got worse when the feeling in my arms started to go. My arms started going numb. We didn't waste time, and went to the doctor immediately. They said I had pinched nerves, and they tried to fix it with all these surgeries and otherwise. It didn't work.

By the time I was fifteen, I could only move my neck and head. Not much, but enough to look around. I couldn't feel below my neck. I dreamed I'd be able to feel one day. I felt hopeless. Useless. Nothing in me could do what it had to, what a human body was designed to do. It made me mad. And it hurt me. It made me feel this deep, angry pain in my stomach. Or maybe that was just the damage to my stomach.

I was a prisoner in my own body. Unable to move, unable to do anything for myself. Speaking wasn't even an option because I had my breathing and feeding tubes fed through the huge holes in my neck. I was physically able to speak, but it was uncomfortable. Usually to communicate I just squinted in the direction of things.

Something my mother always did to help me was by giving me choices. She gave me a feeling of independence that became rare for me. Despite everything I was grateful of it. Instead of forcing me to speak, she would hold up 2 or more options and then let me direct my way to the item I wanted. If she had two, she'd hold them far away from each other, so she would be sure which way my head was directed towards.

Before my arms absolutely failed at life, I could feed myself. I would even trade all of this to just have the useless legs. I would give anything to just have the useless legs instead of the useless everything. I couldn't even breathe on my own. All of it really sucked. Feeling nothing but resent; upset.

I hold my head up as I watch through the window as they live lives I don't get to be a part of. I wish and wish and wish that they'll hold me once again. I wish one day that they'd hug me. Kiss my cheek. Snuggle me to sleep. Tuck me in. Be my family.

But still, the window shows me winter, rain, leaves, water, winter, sun, winter, sun, winter sun. Over and over again. It shows me her life. Their lives. The life I'll never get to live. I ask mother for a hug one last time as my sister drives to mother's funeral.

I watch from the window of the backseat, behind the driver's seat. The exact spot I loved when I was alive. I didn't die here, but it only made sense to me after a while, why I was here. Why I couldn't leave it. It never dawned upon me that I could try, even. I just didn't need to.

I watched from the window as the dewdrops would fall for the last time. The rain flowed down as the car was lifted onto the conveyor belt. It had finally been worn out. I stayed with it as it was crushed. As it was stacked. As it was melted down. I felt. I finally felt.

It just hurt. But for the first time in years, I felt something. Something real.