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The Falling
It began with a lurch. That stomach-drop of losing footing. It always did. A second of weightlessness, then the fall.
Faster.
Wind roared past, drowning everything else. Cold air tore at his skin. His arms flailed for something, anything, but there was nothing.
Panic surged. He tried to scream, but the descent swallowed it.
Falling. Always falling. Nothing but the endless pull.
The wind sharpened, needling into him.
His heart pounded. The speed was unbearable.
Make it stop. Please, just stop.
He jolted awake, still falling. The sensation wouldn’t fade. His gut twisted, chest tight. There was nowhere to land.
Why won’t it stop?
The dark thickened, soundless. The falling went on. Pulling, down and down.
Desperation closed in. His body wouldn’t answer. He clawed at the bed. Heart slammed against his ribs. Shutting his eyes made it worse. Behind them, the void waited.
It didn’t care that he was awake. It didn’t care that this wasn’t real.
I can’t take this anymore.
His hand found the mattress edge. He gripped it, the one solid thing he could reach. But the fall never really stopped. It was etched into bone.
Time stalled. He trembled, the panic refusing to release.
When it eased, if it could be called that, he slumped as far as allowed, still half-upright. Sweat clung to him, his breath shallow.
He blinked at the clock. 3:42 a.m.
Matt stared at the ceiling. The nightmare hadn’t left. Stillness was all he had now, and it was killing him.
The TLSO. The immobility. Too much. Every strap another shackle.
Stay still. This is all you’ll ever be.
The splint on his leg mocked him. He wanted to rip it off. Move. Do something. But he couldn’t even feel it. His legs didn’t belong to him anymore.
You’re wasting everyone’s time.
He was supposed to be making progress. To be better. PT was set back for weeks. Days ran together. Each one heavier. Proof that he wasn’t enough.
Useless. Stuck. Broken.
The room edged in. He needed to move. To prove something. That he was still here. But what was the point? The surgery had frozen everything.
They don’t care. No one cares. You’re just a body in a bed.
And Ben. Ben wasn’t here. He’d been the one Matt thought would understand. But he didn’t care. Maybe he was right to.
The noises grew louder.
Matt clenched his fists, barely. Anything to break the stasis. To fight. To register something other than everything he couldn’t change.
His left hand pressed the mattress. Then the weaker right. He hauled upward stiffly.
Inch by inch, sweat rising, he wrestled his legs into place. The left hung limp, the right jutted forward in its splint. He couldn’t feel the shift, but he kept going, arms shaking with effort.
For a moment, he thought he had it. Then his torso caught and locked. His right leg slid with the tilt, and he tipped.
He hit the floor hard. His shoulder dislocated on impact. The brace jammed into his side. His hands twitched. Even that hurt.
What did you expect?
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Voices followed, clipped and fast.
“Matt, we’re here. Stay still, okay? You’re safe now.”
Safe. The word meant nothing. Someone supported his shoulder.
“Matt,” another said. “We’re giving you something for the pain. Try to breathe.”
A faint nod. The prick of the sedative kicked in. Pain dulled. His limbs sagged. The tension unwound. Tears kept falling.
The elevator blurred past. Even through the haze, the downward pull felt wrong.
By the time they wheeled him back, the drug had hollowed him out. Right arm in a sling, shoulder aching. Ribs sore. And as if none of it had happened, his legs were blank.
He tried to take control, and lost even more of it.
They were right. You don’t matter anymore. You’re just a burden.
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