Deadly Fog

You hadn't even seen the truck coming.

Of course, unpaved roads + drunk drivers + dense grey fog + your dark grey clothing = inevitable disaster. You only remember the brief feel of an utterly agonizing pain as the truck crumpled your legs. "Congratulations! You're going to die a virgin!" was your last thought, giddy with pain and shock, before falling into a thick unconsciousness

But you're alive.

When you wake, your brother presses a bright sunflower - your favorite - into your thin hands and tells you it's been eight months. Eight months. Eight months, and you're left paralyzed from the waist down. But you give everyone deceptively-happy smiles and statements, even when you're told you'll never play soccer again. Never swim again, never go hiking with your pa, never waltz with your Siamese or jog in the mornings or pace with boredom. You have no right to complain.

You're alive.

And you tell yourself you're grateful for it.