I do not own Me Before You.

Yep, still all in a tizzy.

180 Days, Give or Take

I Crack

I remember wishing at that time I hated her being there even more than usual.

That Thursday.

That godawful day when my former good mate and my former girlfriend showed up on my doorstep.

To add just one more brick to the excrement pile that had become my life.

They had rung the day before to request to see me.

Spoken to my mother of course.

As I only ever refused to listen to them pity me over speaker.

She had of course said yes.

So that they might visit.

Encourage.

Enliven.

Inspire me to live, as it were.

Because that had obviously worked so well in the past.

My bloody mother.

And her bloody hope.

I only allowed Nathan to attend to my toiletries and dress me so that I would not be foul and naked upon their arrival.

And because he would have done so anyway to my bellows and curses had I not.

Much as he had done in the months following my realizations that I had done all the getting better I would ever do.

And so there I sat in my wheelchaired living area.

Wishing they would not come.

That something, anything would stymie their appearance.

Nothing extreme of course, as they had once upon a time been my friends.

A car crash perhaps.

Severed arms and legs.

Food poisoning.

Fire. Flood. Typhoon.

Serial killer.

The basics.

But against all my wishes and hopes and dreams and desires, they showed up.

Rupert

And Alicia.

God, she was beautiful.

Just as beautiful as the day I met her.

And the weekend we went parasailing.

The evening she drug me to the ballet.

The morning I left her mussed and naked in that bed to walk out and be mown down by an idiot on a motorbike.

And every day in between.

She was beautiful.

And uncomfortable.

Sad.

Awkward.

And guilty.

She was guilty.

They were both guilty.

It was written all over them as they tucked into their hot beverages . . .

Finally. You must rapt with joy, Clark. Someone to finally drink your damn coffee and tea.

. . . and tried to pretend they were enjoying my quadriplegic company.

Them and their healthy, walking selves.

That didn't look for more than a few seconds directly at my shaggy hair . . .

Wouldn't fit in at the office now, would I, old chum?

Scruffy face.

Never would've let these scratchy whiskers between those perfectly waxed thighs I know, love.

And certainly not my state of the art wheelchair.

Don't look, don't look, it's catching, paralysis is.

I thought my mother might twist her fingers right off her hand twiddling with that bloody gold crucifix of hers.

While Alicia busied herself carefully inspected the woodburner . . .

". . . more efficient than an open fire . . ."

. . . a thing she would have never given a half second attention to before.

And Rupert prattled on about his job . . .

". . . Goldstein's boutique . . ."

. . . whilst managing not to fall flat on his face after metaphorically crushing his bangers and mash with the 'daren't leave my chair' bit.

And Clark and her twisted up hair and fuzzy hodgepodge of garments flitted in and out like a nervous little butterfly.

If nervous little butterflies comported themselves as clumsily and obnoxiously as raging rhinoceros.

I suppose though I was somewhat indebted her.

The only moment of the whole sorry affair approaching levity was the expression of shock on her face she could not hide when I spoke to her and used her actual Christian name.

Not Clark.

As if she were a less helpful, less formidable version of Nathan.

Not Lou.

As if she were a sexless grunt.

But . . .

"Louisa . . ."

As if she were simply a woman. Hired for her general usefulness and pleasant demeanor.

". . . would you mind putting some more logs on the fire? I think it needs building up a bit."

And right before her jaw unceremoniously thudded to my religiously hoovered hardwood floor, she blurted some bubbly acknowledgment of my request and stepped to.

I almost smiled.

That Clark. No poker face at all.

An open book.

Reading: "He has manners and gentility in that chair? He isn't a slobbering, drooling quadriplegic Yeti of an Englishman in that chair?"

Of course I have gentlemanly qualities when I choose to, Clark. Now careful with the fire before that dreadful jumper of yours there sets itself ablaze. Whole place'll come down around our. . . wait, on second thought . . .

And then, though I should have anticipated it, they, my friends, blugered me about the shaggy head and dead heart with the real reason of their visit.

Engagement.

My former good mate, Rupert and my former girlfriend Alicia, were engaged.

To be married.

And very nearly requesting my blessing.

The walking twats.

And they even had me to thank for it.

". . . such a support to me after . . ."

Brilliant. Well done, chap.

". . . care about you . . ."

Yes, yes, thanks so much for caring enough to show yourselves personally to flay me.

". . . life goes on . . ."

Yes, well, somebody's does anyway. Not mine.

". . . two years after all . . ."

Really? Hadn't noticed. Been awful busy 'round here.

But really, they were right.

Life did go on. Rupert had been a support.

Someone'd had to be.

Because it sure hadn't been me.

She had stayed by me. Every minute of every day nearly in the hospital.

Plotting my brow, fluffing my pillow.

Listening to the doctor describe the irreparable damage done to my spinal cord so terribly high on my back.

She had cried and wiped my tears as I had cried.

She had stayed and encouraged all through those first months of physio, never complaining, never faltering, never failing.

She had spoken to my friends, our friends.

She even held my mother as she had cried and most spectacularly hugged my English father time and time again.

Bed sores and pneumonia and bladder spasms and sponge baths.

She had even set up shop for a short time in the spare room in the flat.

Reading to me in the day and stroking my pallid face at night.

She had only fled after that first year when all our work and dedication and hope had yielded the barest of movements of my right hand.

And the doctors had said that was all that it would be for me and it was time to accept it.

And my positive, genial behavior, hanging by the thinnest of frayed threads, had finally unraveled.

And I had become the thing in the chair that I was now.

Filled with hate and spite and resentment and helpless rage at every living, breathing, walking sod on the planet that wasn't me.

She had finally fled after months of my caustic bitterness in response to her kindness, her caring.

Fled after months of my raging fits, horrible threats, and hateful, spiteful tongue lashings.

In tears and emotional devastation, she had finally fled.

Long after the rest.

And shortly before my suicide attempt.

So, yes, Alicia, dear Alicia, had been there.

Until she could be there no longer.

And I still hated her for it.

For her long-suffering love.

Her tall, svelte frame.

Her Nordic beauty.

And of course, her well-functioning, painless, walking legs.

And coffee cup holding hands and fingers.

And as for Rupert, well . . .

Hope she fakes 'em all for ya, mate.

. . . I congratulated them as best I could.

"I'm sure you'll both be very happy."

And it tasted like ash, like hate, like death in my mouth.

I know Clark, with the hearing of a hypertensive underground mongoose, must have heard some or all of the conversation between me and my formerly beloved and her currently beloved.

As I have said before, face. Book.

But I didn't wait around to hear her bubbly encouragement or blithe commentary on the matter when they took their leave.

I went to my bedroom to escape her.

Them.

Everything.

The errant nail was gone.

The one that had stuck out so many months ago.

The one that I had used to scratch and tear at my wrist until I nearly bled out and died.

Driving my chair back and forth, inches at a time.

For hours and hours it seemed.

Until my blood dripped down the smooth steel of the chair and my eyes drooped.

And my mother screamed.

That nail was gone.

But there was a jousting stick.

So light and thin I could just barely maneuver it across my lap.

Straining those few muscles I still had control of.

And I drove it across the tabletop with my wheelchair, toppling those bloody insufferable pictures of me in another life.

A happy life. A fulfilled life. An alive life.

The life I wanted back. The friends I wanted back. The healthy, fantastic, walking life I wanted back.

The one that had been stolen from me by a motorbike in the rain.

So very like my own that I had chosen not to ride that day.

For safety reasons, you see.

It was all too much to take, all too much to accept.

All too much to feel.

So I destroyed them as best as I could.

Sending them crashing, shattering to the floor.

And raising the alarm of my ever so diligent, tiny, chatty, little pixie Clark.

Who ran in with fear in her big, round eyes and tremors in her shrill voice.

I stared at her, my quadriplegic chest heaving with exertion and emotion.

Daring her to say one bloody stupid word to me.

Which of course she did.

Rattling on in her fake, cheery voice about wheelchair tires and vacuum cleaners.

Because it was what she could fix. What she could do.

Those big, round, worried eyes.

I knew at that moment if I could have crawled inside them and simply died, I would have.

But I couldn't.

And that was it.

Well, that was some scene, wasn't it? Jeez. Anybody up for a hug or a cuddle or something?

Well, anyway, thanks to DinahRay, rapunzelclayre, FanFicFan305, and mystery guest for your reviews. I'm glad readers are enjoying (?) this story. And I know we're all glad it's gonna get a little lighter here in a bit.

For a while anyway.

Thanks also to FanFicFan305 for letting me use your profile pic as my new story pic. Isn't it lovely?!