Page 2 of Frozen Flames

To be able to fly with no other equipment but my own body weight. To be able to see every other creature on this earth. Tolive.

I wonder how peaceful it is to be a bird.

They’re like the watchers of the world, soaring and hovering over us while we live our peasant lives.

I quickly glance at the phoenix tattoo on my forearm. Its feet are clutching the root of a small rose. The phoenix’s wings are magnificent, and each line of ink on the bird was sketched ferociously.

I drew it.

My parents didn’t necessarily agree with me getting a tattoo, but fuck it, it’s my arm.

I’m not even sure what I wanted it to represent exactly.

Sure, there’s rebirth and balance. I’m not sure anyone would disagree with that. Maybe we all want our own possibility of life after death. This whole idea that despite our mistakes and our flaws and how hard life can get, we always have the chance to change direction and do better,bebetter.

Except my phoenix is too raw and angry to be about peace. It’s pulling at the root as if ithasto, as if there’s no other option.

As if to say, like it or not, it’s time to go, time to change, time to grow.

And sometimes maybe there’s no other way to reach that point in time than when all else turns to ash.

I breathe in deeply, tilting my head toward the sun, shutting my eyes, forcing myself to forget the slight melancholy of my thoughts.

Little did I know that this was the day, the moment, the hours before my life turned upside down.

And I would do anything to go back in time and do things differently.

Because I had no idea what truly lie ahead.

Harvey

“Dinner’s ready,” Gemma tells me in my room. Her voice sounds different this Thursday night—livelier.

I nod, continuing to play my game, thinking she’s going to leave the room like she usually does, but not tonight. This time, she asks me again if I’m coming, and I nod yet again, exhaling when she leaves.

I don’t feel like company tonight. I want to brood in my room, but clearly that isn’t going to happen, so I pause and save my game.

Once I’m in the kitchen, I use my upper-body strength to transfer from my wheelchair to the low-seated chair at the table. We eat our steak, potatoes, and salad accompanied by complete silence.

“This is good. Thank you,” I eventually say, trying to elevate the mood.

“You’re welcome.” She smiles, and the romantic setting is obvious from the dimmed lights and center candle.

I stare at her face and her auburn hair, her green eyes now settled on her plate of food.

Fuck, she’s hurting too.

I can see it, feel it.

Her pain looms around this home, like a ghost unable to move on from its past.

She’s a beautiful girl, yet I’m missing the smile that used to touch her lips. Now I get the forced one, the one she’soverperformed the past few years to pretend that she’s okay, that she’s doing fine, that we’re doing fine.

What a load of crap.

My heart bled out emotionally, yet my physical body keeps moving, barely, though, because I’m paralyzed in both legs. The damage to my spinal cord is incomplete, and I have some nerve feeling at different spots in my legs. Which is why my doctor predicted that I might be able to walk again one day, at least short distances.

But truly, you know what I wish would’ve been paralyzed that night? My fucking heart. Although that might’ve happened too, maybe that’s why I can’t make Gemma happy.

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