Paralyzed
It's the four-year anniversary of the day I lost my guns with an "honorable discharge" so to speak. This anniversary is always the worst - its nearly winter and the whole world is dying around me, my shoulder is throbbing at the early snow, and it's the anniversary of the day I was honorably discharged from the Gunslingers of Gilead.
Not that I was actually discharged, mind you. I am still allowed to carry the guns, and still hailed as Gunslinger (and the first woman at that). I can even still shoot the left gun in practice. But I am given no duties and sit most days in my rooms, arm tucked up in a sling - unmoving, unfeeling, paralyzed.
"Get up, get up, get up!" My husband, Lane, walks into the room cheerily. He goes everywhere cheerily. Sometimes I resent him for being so happy, so contentedly stable, when my world has crashed so mightily around his feet. But I owe him my life, for both the night I was shot and countless times before then. I owe him my life, and my guns, and my undying devotion to match his own.
He leans over the back of my chair, a hand on each shoulder (though I can only feel the pressure on the left one) and his chin resting lightly atop my head. "Time to get up, time to get up, time to get up in the morning..." he starts the familiar morning chant.
"Not today, Lane." I brush him off with my good hand and move my head to the side so he can't rest on it anymore.
"Today just as everyday," he grins and puts his face next to mine. I can feel his cheeks move up as he smiles.
"Do you even know what day it is?" I ask accusingly.
"It's Tuesday," he replies with ease.
I make a sound of annoyance; of course he knows what day it is, the happy bastard. "It's Reap," I remind him coldly.
Lane turns his head to look outside at all of the stuffy guys hanging on the posts and nods, "indeed it is. Happy Reap."
But it isn't a happy Reap - it hasn't been a happy Reap for years. I push back my chair so he will have to move back and I stand up, walking back to the bed. "Wake me up tomorrow," I say as I bury myself in pillows and quilts.
Lane jumps on the bed, narrowly missing my outstretched leg, and lies on top of me and the quilts. "I shall wake you up tomorrow," he says into the pillow I've draped over my head, "but first you must get up for today."
"I was already up," my muffled reply dredged itself up through the goose down.
Lane laughed, "well yes, but you haven't even had breakfast yet. You can't very well go back to bed without having breakfast... and dinner... and supper and then dessert."
"I'm sick, Lane, I'll eat tomorrow."
He picks up the edge of the pillow and buries his own face under it until our noses are touching in the humid dark. "You're not sick," he says softly, his breath warm on my face.
"I'm clinically depressed," I reply, "and paralyzed. That's sick."
Lane's mouth curves up in a smile I can see even in the dark. It's genuine, but its also sad. "I know you're depressed," he says, barely above a whisper as he caresses my good shoulder, "but it's still worth living, even without use of one arm. Don't forget the face of your father."
"It's not fair, Lane," I could feel the hot tears burning my face and puddling at my nose, "you should have let me die."
He laughs and I know what he is going to say. "And forgo the chance to wrestle you out of bed every morning so I can watch your beautiful, sad face as you stare forlorn out the window? Nay, life wouldn't be the same without sleeping on a tear-soaked pillow every night."
"Well then kill me and cry yourself to sleep every night," I snap back. How dare he make a joke of my suffering like it means nothing?
"What makes you think I don't?" he asks, and there is no longer any hint of laughter in his voice. His fingers move up to touch my cheek and I start crying harder. He pulls me close and upends the pillow so we can both breathe the cool, fresh air of the morning. As I relax into the hiccups that come after a hard cry he smiles, "maybe I am sick today too. I'll ask them to send breakfast up."
We eat breakfast in silence and watch the snow fall just outside the window, covering the ugly stuffy-guys with crisp, white freshness, pardoning their sins with water instead of the fire that will come later in the night.
"Her life for yours," Lane says quietly, somberly, and then turns to look at me. "It wasn't your fault, Rebecca."
Indeed, all of my sins have been washed in blood.