'Sup?
A very short drabble addressing Artie's shirt in the "Born This Way" spoiler pictures.
I took a deep, shaky breath, filling my whole torso with air before letting it all out again, deflating like a popped balloon. The mirror was unforgiving, mocking me in my stressed position. I swallowed, attempting to shake the nerves out through my fingertips.
Four eyes.
I pulled the shirt over my head, examining it in the reflective glass. I glanced down at my hands laying limply in my lifeless lap, my wheelchair suddenly becoming the biggest part of the room. I looked back into the mirror, attempting to focus on the glasses perched on my nose. That was the only thing I had to be insecure about, right? Our insecurities were plastered on these shirts, and that's all I had to worry about. Totally.
Definitely.
Clearing my throat, I rolled out of the boys bathroom, sweeping my eyes over the blank stares of the rest of the Glee club. Brittany's eyebrow raised questioningly, nudging Santana with her elbow. She whispered something to her and looked back at me, eyes glossed over with not much emotion in them. Sam's expression held the same quality, furrowing his eyebrows and pursing his lips.
"Four eyes?" Santana finally spoke up, crossing her arms over her stomach, still clad in her own clothes. I wasn't sure if she thought she was too cool for it, or was too insecure to wear a shirt about her insecurities. Tina looked down at the floor, frowning softly. She was the only one who knew the story about what happened. She was the only one who knew why I was in the chair. Tina was the only one who I've been close enough...and comfortable enough with to tell. I didn't even tell Brittany. I think it was mostly because I was too afraid she wouldn't understand.
"Yeah," I said slowly, Tina's apologetic gaze meeting mine. Mike rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb, an unsettling feeling lingering in my stomach. "Four eyes." I swallowed hard, starting to roll toward the spot I normally sat.
"Wheels, you know what I'm talking about. You know...your wheels," Santana snorted a little, trying to milk a reaction from the unamused crowd of kids. All 12 other pairs of eyes were fixed on me at that point, a curious quality in each one of their stares.
"Look," I rolled back up to the center of the room, glancing at Tina again. I mustered up the courage to choke out the story, "When I was 8 years old, I was in a really bad car accident with my mom. All of you know that she was fine, but I was hospitalized for a long time. It was really, really bad nerve damage, and to make a long story short, I can't walk anymore. I won't ever be able to walk again. I wasn't born this way." I paused again, my eyes stopping on each person in the room. "Even though I wasn't, the chair has become a part of me. I'll always live with it, and I just have to accept that sometimes, life isn't good to us all."
Trouty Mouth.
Likes Boys.
Can't Sing.
I'm With Stoopid.
"It's a part of me and I am just going to have to be proud." I swallowed again. "Yeah. I'm proud. I'm proud of where I've been and who I've become," The air caught up in my throat, "Wheelchair included."