Chapter 42q: Action Begets Reaction
God, it feels great to be out of the hospital!
The world hasn't changed much: the sun still shines behind the gray clouds of Britain, people still drive like assholes, the footpaths remain terrible and my instinct to find the nearest pub is still as accurate as it has ever been.
Second street to the right.
Which is why I am not going there on my walk.
Well, walk. More of a stroll. Emphasis on 'roll'. Ah.
Cain will punch me for that one and be in the right for it.
Anyway. As I was thinking: it is great to be a free man. Ish.
Honestly, I don't like the wheelchair bit of it. Never will, but I'll hopefully get to leave it - which seems rather likely given my steady rate of improvement in building muscle mass and relearning the basic movements that keep me from slamming into cups and doorways like a drunk toddler.
Nope. Not going there.
So what puts this wheelchair apart from the last wheelchairs I used? It runs on my own arm power. No more fussy nurse Eyeliner or nurse Muffin that needs to push me around while making the most terrible conversation that so unsubtly avoids the topic of Matilda that it is all I can think about.
The problem though is.. that it runs on my own arm power.
I've passed... I think five streets in the last hour. Ugh. I should have turned around earlier. Apparently building muscle mass and building stamina are not the same thing at all.
So now I'm sitting here, catching my breath as much as my arm muscles. Looking at the most wonderful case of chav-inspired gardening: several mismatched garden tiles, some dead bushes that probably died a few winters ago, and the trash can that just stands in the garden because hey, there's this shitty eighties Volkswagen Beetle that needs to be in the driveway.
I wouldn't be surprised if they had their own distillery in their basement. You never know with people like those.
Some movement shows in the window. Ah. I probably should move on. Short fuses and all. Or easy friends. Frankly, I can't afford a beating, and can afford an invitation to join them for a drink even less-so.
I swivel around - left hand back, right hand forwards - and start my trip back, making sure to pace myself in a leisurely roll.
Oh. A roll. That implies going downhill. Wait.. I was going uphill before, wasn't I?
Atari maida! What a relief!
I'm not nearly as pathetic as I thought! That would have been at least a dozen side streets on level terrain, right? Not bad at all, not bad at a-
Suddenly, I feel as if I lost what little weight I've got left while the world slows down around me. My weight shifts towards the right, and I can only barely do the math of this being really bad.
When I was at my best, I couldn't even do a wheelie with two wheels placed behind eachother, nevermind this parallel balancing act of doom!
Why is there a pothole there in the first place?
Why didn't I notice it when I came by earlier?
WHY AM I WORRIED ABOUT IT WHEN I SHOULD BE WORRIED ABOUT HEADING RIGHT TOWARDS THAT CAR THAT IS HONKING LIKE A FUCKING MANIAC?!
Right as I fear I'll go through the windshield using my own accumulated momentum, there's my saving grace with none of the graceful bits.
Having a hard helm deposited in your face by your saviour hurts like hell, I'll have me know now. Fuck. But it is effective; I feel my momentum being brought to a near complete stop, my body more effectively leaving this deathtrap vehicle of mine to literally end up in the arms of...
... an angel.
Fuck God, I didn't even have a chance to have a drink, and I still remember bits of that tunnel I was in for two years.. I don't want to go there now.
"That was close, sir. Are you alright?" comes the winded reply of my saviour. She sounds a bit like an angel, but in all honesty I think my brain isn't working very well right now.
She on the other hand makes up for my speechlessness, rapidfiring syllables at a rate my brain isn't doing too well as keeping up with. "Oh, of course you're not. I'm so sorry, let me get you some tissues. I hope it isn't broken?"
She babbles on a bit as I descend back onto this world.
Okay. Not an angel. Her hair isn't anywhere nearly as neat. And she's probably a bit too pudgy to match up with what I know angels to look like. Then again, isn't that the movies, glamorizing anything? She could be an angel, I guess.
Don't judge others based on appearances, Quinn. Matilda always looked for the best in others, so I should, too.
Then again, isn't being an angel a really good thing? I guess being an angel and being thought of as a fake lookalike angel could be insulting, though...
Hmm, do angels hurt people? Because the way she's stuffing that tissue onto my nose is giving me some really painful feelings.
"Omae." I mumble, finding myself a bit winded and taking a deeper breath before vocalizing myself more adequately. "Stop stop stop. I can do that myself, you know."
I finally utter those words as I lift my hand up to my nose and somehow take control over the tissue in question, and the smile on her lips seems to lose its tension. Was I quiet for that long? On second inspection, her cheeks seem to burn up in a red blush caused by whatever sprint she must have pulled to save my sorry Darwin-defying ass.
VooaaAAARRR. VoooaaRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR.
And there she goes. Turning around and giving a glare at the driver - I assume she does anyway, it is hard to tell with her looking away from me. Some inventive gestures finally make the car go around us whilst excessively revving their engine. The drivers look like chavs, but it is nice to see their driving confirm it.
"You should be more careful."
She turns back to me and helps herself to my wheelchair; I'd fight it but I feel like I've lost the right to stand on stripes with regards to preserving my autonomous functioning right now.
"That pothole wasn't there when I came by here before."
I respond awkwardly as I nurse my nose, finding the nose to be considerably more wiggly than it is supposed to be. And more painful, too. Oh well. It'll heal somehow. I've never heard of anyone losing their nose.
"Sure it was. It's been there for at least the last two years. I've been patrolling here for at least that long, and chased a pickpocket over that exact same footpath back then. It was pretty rainy then, and I mistook the depth of the puddle, and nearly sprained my ankle in that very same pothole."
I frown. I am sure it wasn't there, though.
"I swear I'm not making excuses."
She smiles just a little. "The streets all look alike. Mistakes happen. Where are you headed?"
As I explain the path to take - second right, go left at the end - she shakes her head.
"That's where the motorway is. You must be a bit lost."
Somehow, I find myself grumbling. It's only five damn blocks. How mistaken can I possibly be?
"Fine. Glaston Recovery Center."
I grumble out my answer, unwilling to admit being wrong since I am most obviously not.
"That would have been a left down the corner you passed back there, then another two blocks, a right and then to follow the curve in the road to behind the hedges..."
Ugh. I eye her, trying to figure out if she's yanking my proverbial chain. The more I stare at her, the more I believe she is truthful. I don't think a constable would joke like that in this situation.
A chav would, but chavs don't wear those idiotic-looking hats.
Would I rather have a chav be the one to jump to my rescue? Chavs should have something that hits the spot.