Excerpt: Pull

Somehow I get my left foot onto the ground with my right leg still uselessly shooting in a straight line behind me. I feel like I am dying, but I somehow force my left leg to exert the pressure needed to give me that final push into a standing position. Beads of sweat have erupted on my forehead, and I actually feel like I might pass out. I take a deep breath , assess my pain, swallow my bile and turn to face Byron.

“I appreciate what you have done for me,” my voice sounds small and pained, but I think Biggs can hear the determination in it, if he somehow missed it in my last mad act.

“I appreciate your company, but I don’t need you to get me where I am going, and I am going there.” I swallow again and this time the acid goes down easier. I am not going to throw up. I am not going to burst into tears. Either Byron is driving me to Angie or I am getting in that wheelchair and rolling there.

“I should just leave you here,” he says slamming his door shut, “for all this manipulative behavior. You know damn well, that if you say you are going, with or without me, then I am going! Jesus, you are a pain in my ass.”

He walks around me and looks at the back of my head, “and now I have to take care of your fucking scalp lacerations, as well,” he adds.

He stomps around the back of the car and throws open the other passenger door, tearing open one bag and then another, I assume to find the first aid kit. While he is at that, I rest my forehead on the roof and sigh deeply into my arms, allowing the blood from the back of my head to drip warmly down my neck and onto my cheek. It is the next best thing to crying.