-T
HREE
There, says Charles. How’s that?
I lean back in the armchair and stare out the wall of glass in front of me, the city spreading out hundreds of metres below like an oil slick. Layers of faded hills in the distance.
The hospital sent me away without any drugs, so all I’m on right now is your regular paracetamol and ibuprofen, but it’s pointless, because the lightning bolts striking up and down my leg are teeth-grinding agony.
I say, I’d be better if they’d given me some proper painkillers.
Charles, he looks at my fat, casted leg raised up on the footstool, and he says, Painkillers are for the weak. If you can control your mind, you can control the pain.
I laugh, and I think I am not in the mood for this Eastern hocus pocus crap right now.
I say, What is this, some kind of Shaolin monk shit?
You westerners, he says. You’ve lost touch with your bodies.
He tells me to close my eyes, and to focus on the pain.
And I say, The goal is to take the pain away, remember?
He tells me to close my eyes, and to focus on the pain.
To visualize it.
So I sigh, and I do it.
I zero in on my leg, a limb in the darkness. I float through the skin so I can see the muscle and the sinew and the bone, and I see the pain as lasers zooming through it, Boba Fett shooting all hell up in there with his blaster, and the blasts get faster, and faster, so fast that they combine into one blinding light, expanding and exploding until my whole leg is engulfed.
Eyes still closed, I say to Charles, This is dumb. I have never been in more pain than I am right now.
Then Charles tells me to let the image of the pain go, to think of a place, or a moment in time that makes me happy.
So I do it.
I scrub the light bomb from my mind, make it go all dark.
I bring up a picture of a room, flooded with golden hour light – the kind of light photographers’ wet dreams are made of.
White curtains billow in the gentle summer breeze.
Outside the window, I can see trees full of green leaves, branches swaying, like a scene from a Terrence Malick film.
I’m lying on my side, and in front of me I can see Mia. She’s got her back turned to me.
We’re in bed, naked, and she’s got her hair tied up in a bun, exposing the soft skin of her neck.
I move in close, rest my lips on the base of her neck, breathe in the smell of her coconut shampoo.
The pain in my leg, it’s sort of gone, more like a dull ache now.
Then I remember where I am, and that I’ve probably lost Mia for good.
Charles says, How’s the pain?
Unbearable, I say.
T
WENTY
-F
OUR
For true, life in a wheelchair one hundred per cent sucks.
Basic things like getting in and out of bed, or going to the toilet, or washing – not so basic anymore.
Akemi got this special cast protector for me, which helps. It slips over my leg and seals itself like magic so it doesn’t get wet when I’m in the tub. I’ve still got to rest my leg on the edge of the bath though, and it hurts like a motherfucker.
Then there’s things like cooking for yourself. I can’t even reach the kitchen counter to prep food, so Charles is cooking all my meals. Of course he is a kick-arse chef – he’s cooked me niu rou mian, zong zi and hotpot so far – and the salt, sweet, fat and heat of these crazy-smelling dishes is overwhelming.
Like I’ve unlocked some sort of secret level of taste on my tongue, and now there’s no going back because I’ve seen the other side. (The dishes all have ‘umami’, according to Charles.)
And I think that Akemi was probably messing with me making me eat that fish head stew, but now that I’ve upgraded my taste buds, I think I’d even find that dish tasty too.
