Round 3 Challenge: Incorporate the death of a dog into your next passage. It should be no more than 400 words long.
Don’t assume it’s because I’m looking for any sympathy tears that I’m telling you this. There’s no sorrier sight than a self-pitying paraplegic and nothing more repulsive than the pity of the pedestrian. I don’t need you opening any bloody doors for me or pushing me up any inclines. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those bitter Lieutenant Dan types who rail against every Forrest Gump who comes along. I’m sure you mean well. I know you don’t mean to be a patronising imperious wanker. But it’s hard not to get riled at times, especially when some muppet in shining armour decides to make you into his damsel in distress. Like I have a sign over me that says “Push Me To Feel Good”.
So now that we’ve dropped the phoney niceties, let’s get on with the story. I should probably mention how old I am and where I’m from and all the rest of that character development rubbish they teach in writing books. The thing is, when you’re in a wheelchair, age is a meaningless term, an outdated leftover from your upright years. If there’s one thing I’ve got now, it’s time. Whether I slice it up into years or not, it’s the same shite.
As far as parents, I’ve got some, if you can call them that. They’re out there somewhere, probably getting pissed in some dingy council flat. They’d always been right twats but after the accident they revealed their true colours. I was completely dependent for the first two years so it fell on them to assist me. They resented it. I was just a pain-in-the-arse cripple to them. They never said it to my face. But when they got wasted they’d talk about me. They never were quiet drunks.
A few days ago some bloke in New Zealand clubbed his pit bull with a hammer, slit its neck, and then roasted it. He killed it because it was a nuisance. It caused a fuss in the news. I say good on him. At least he didn’t toss the dog out to die of exposure or spend his life whinging about how ugly it was.
I have more to offer than pain, suffering, and bitterness. There is light. Bright, piercing and cathartic. But first I must wheel myself through the tunnel.