Jack was tired of hearing from everyone how he should look on the bright side, how he should be thankful that even though he was broken, he was alive.
“Screw that shit,” he muttered as he rifled through one of the nearby mounds of semi-dirty laundry that popped up like boils around his apartment since the accident that left him with two broken legs and an even more broken ego. Gratitude was most assuredly not on the menu today, but a heaping plate of self-pity might be in order.
Broken was not a status that Jack understood or tolerated well; he relied heavily on his physical potency to power him through just about everything in life. Thrust now into a situation where mental toughness would be his primary resource, Jack could only dwell on the significant damage to his long-term plans and wallow in his own self-doubt, since he couldn’t even manage the simple task of finding a passably clean shirt, never mind anything that demanded significant physical capability.
Jack let out a long, frustrated yell as he pumped his arms hard on the wheels of his chair, sending himself hurtling down the hallway and crashing into the front door just in time to hear Andi’s calm voice on the other side say, “Jack, if you’re through with your tantrum now, why don’t we get started on your therapy session.”
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