Page 49 of Frozen Flames

One little tip over and I might not have much time left.

That night I blow shit up and stab people online. Essentially anything to grant myself a release from this rage.

Gemma gets home before eleven.

Eleven o’clock on a weeknight.

Does. She. Think. I’m. A. Fucking. Idiot?

I know she’s messing with me. I sense it in every cell in my body. I might not be able to prove it, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

I’m so angry while she showers.

I resent her.

For leaving me, for not caring about me.

I’m sure she’s cheating on me—at least emotionally. It’s so obvious that she must take me for a dumbass. And so I push all thoughts away that remind me I’m not being faithful either.

Because with all this anger, I’m desperate to stick it to her.

So I watch porn—loudly—not giving a damn.

I stroke my cock hard and fast, then I slow down, teasing myself, trying to control the grunts coming out of me. I jerk off the way she hasn’t seen me touch myself in years.

I go at it like my life depends on it.

It feels so good.

God, I still remember the days where I couldn’t even get hard.

It can still be hit or miss.

But I’ve slowly retaught myself the art of self-fuck.

The entire time, I’m picturing Claire dancing and singing in the kitchen, and for the love of all that is holy, I picture her kneeling in front of my wheelchair as I begged her to stay.

I leave my door open on purpose.

I go at it over and over until I come, and I hear the creaks in the wooden floor as Gemma no doubt retreats to her room.

Fuck you, Gemma.

Harvey

I’m shirtless, in charcoal pants, when I walk slowly to my closet to grab a shirt.

That’s when I hear her. “Harvey…” Gemma clears her throat. “Look at you!”

She seems genuinely pleased to see mewalkingthis morning. To be honest, I don’t know what made me do it. I do it with Claire daily, but there’s usually bars on either side, aiding my self-confidence, ready to be grabbed if need be.

This Friday morning, I said fuck it.

I took one step, and then another, and then one more.

And here I am. My mind is reeling at the thought of walking again, even for short distances. I’m dreaming big, wondering if McKleen is right and I can do this—walk with crutches.

My stomach is in turmoil, yet it’s buzzing with excitement at the prospect of my future. I’m scared to death that something will cause my progress to falter, and I’m furious at my girlfriend.

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