Page 21 of Captive Bride
"Look, man, I can't make any promises," the therapist's voice was firm yet infused with an unmistakable note of pride. He stood close, ready to catch me if I faltered. "But if you keep this up, I have a feeling you'll be out of that chair soon."
His words, simple and direct, cut through the fog of pain and fatigue. It was more than encouragement; it was a glimpse of a future I had been too scared to imagine. A future where I wasn't defined by the confines of a wheelchair or the limits of my injuries. The ghost of my former strength seemed to pulse within me, a silent ally urging me on.
I paused, leaning heavily against the bar, and let his words sink in. Despite the exhaustion that clawed at my muscles, a flicker of something like excitement took root deep in my chest. The possibility of regaining what I'd lost flashed before my eyes—a chance to walk unaided, to reclaim the autonomy that had been ripped from me.
"Good," I managed to grunt out between breaths, not allowing myself to dwell on the 'ifs' and 'maybes'. Right now, it was enough to believe in the progress I was making—to let hope edge out the despair that had become my unwelcome companion.
But determination can only take you so far.
My legs trembled, the fibers of my muscles burning with a fire that threatened to consume my every resolve. Each step had been a battle, an act of defiance against the trauma that had sought to claim me. But even as I clung to the bar, willing myself forward, I could feel the strength ebbing from my limbs.
"Almost there," the physical therapist urged, his voice a distant echo against the pounding in my ears.
One more step. I shifted my weight, ignoring the searing protest in my spine, when suddenly my legs buckled. The world tilted, and I found myself collapsing into the nearest chair, my body surrendering to a bone-deep exhaustion. It shook with the aftershocks of exertion, every shudder a testament to the day's labor.
I was a Callahan, heir to a legacy of power and control, yet here I was, crumbling under the weight of my own body. The irony wasn't lost on me - the feared and respected, now vulnerable and reliant. I buried my face in my hands, a refuge from the sterile lights of the therapy room, from the pitying gaze of anyone who might witness this moment of defeat.
I couldn’t fucking do this. I was just glad Adriana wasn’t here to see this.
Silent sobs wracked my frame, each one a mute rebellion against the injustice of it all. My mind raced with thoughts of the empire waiting for my command, the streets whispering my family's name with a mix of reverence and dread. Yet, within these four walls, none of that mattered. Here, I was just a man trying to stand on his own two feet.
The pride I'd felt moments earlier, fueled by the therapist's words, crumbled into dust. Hope seemed like a cruel mirage, leaving me parched in its wake. As tears stained the skin between my fingers, I grappled with the raw truth of my situation. It wasn't just about walking; it was about reclaiming the life that had slipped through my fingers, about not succumbing to the darkness that loomed at the edge of my consciousness.
“Ash,” the therapist called out my fake name, but I couldn’t even look at him.
I needed this moment - to grieve, to rage. In the solitude of my despair, I faced the daunting path ahead.
The room blurred through the wet veil of my tears, each droplet a silent capitulation to the pain and frustration clawing at my insides. But then, there was a touch—firm yet gentle—on my shoulder, grounding me back to the present.
"Hey." The therapist's voice was a low rumble, a strong contrast to the quiet sobs that had just left me. "You did good today. Really good."
I shook my head, trying to dismiss his kindness along with the tears I hastily wiped away with the back of my hand. "Sorry," I muttered, my throat tight, "I'm not...This isn't me."
"Nobody here's judging you, man." His grip on my shoulder tightened for a second before letting go. "It's okay to be pissed, or whatever you're feeling. Progress is hard won, and it comes with its own kind of battle scars."
A deep breath shuddered out of me as I lifted my gaze, meeting the reflection of my own blue eyes in the mirror on the opposite wall. My father's eyes. I couldn't let him—or myself—down. Not now.
"I’m embarrassed," I admitted, the word a mere whisper, as if saying it louder would make it more true, more damning. "Never thought I'd be the one needing... this."
“Trust me. You’re not the first person to cry in that chair.”
Something flickered in his eyes, a spark of empathy that was oddly comforting. He understood what it was like to be in my shoes, the roller-coaster of emotions that rushed through me each time I saw an improvement, no matter how slight.
"Listen," he said, breaking the silence. "You have to remember that recovery isn't a straight line. There will be ups and downs, moments when you feel like you're on top of the world and moments when it all seems impossible. But through it all, you keep fighting. That's who you are. You wouldn’t be so close to walking again after a spinal injury if you weren’t a fucking warrior.”
His words rang in my ears, echoing off the sterile walls of the therapy room. A warrior. Months ago, I would have laughed at the sentiment. But now, I found myself clinging to his conviction like a lifeline.
"You think so?" I asked, my voice hoarse from exhaustion and tears. The question hung in the air, a vulnerable echo that laid bare my deepest fear: what if I wasn't strong enough to face this challenge?
"I know so," he asserted, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that left no room for doubt. "Think about it. Every step you took today was a victory. You're battling your own body and coming out on top. That's not just strength—that's courage."
I swallowed hard, digesting his words. They tasted like hope - raw and untamed - a flavor I'd nearly forgotten.
“Okay,” I said.
“And, you know, this is super common. This emotional struggle after an injury. You’re doing great with your physical recovery, but sometimes the emotional side can be really hard, too. You could talk to someone about it.”
“You mean like…my girlfriend?”