#My52: Week 2
Word prompt: wheelchair
Word count – 503
Reading time – 2 mins, 4 secs
A thick layer of dust covered the piano his mother forced him to practice thirteen years ago.
Dex ran his hand over the keys.
I hated this piano. I hated practicing.
His shoulders slumped as he plunked a key.
The stiffness of the key and the angry tone of the chord spoke to the years of disuse.
Like him, the piano sat, waiting for concern and interest from anyone.
Dexter Morgan wandered into the kitchen and felt like he’d traveled back in time.
Everything was the same… the linoleum, countertops, cabinets… even the toaster. The only thing missing was the thirteen-inch television he watched cartoons on while shoveling down spoonfuls of Malt-o-Meal.
Dex pushed through the swinging café doors and took in the once bright and sunny dining room.
Heavy, dark green drapes hung on the far wall of glass, blocking out any hint of daylight. A worn, wooden rocking chair sat in the corner, covered in as much dust as the piano.
A hospital bed sat in the room’s center, stripped and unplugged.
He was ready to leave this room… to leave this house, but the bed called to him like a siren luring him closer.
He grazed his hand over the plastic mattress, and it felt as cold and empty as his heart.
His mother told him his father had died eleven years old—two years after she dragged him from this house. They were going away with Simon; the man Verna Morgan started an affair with after his father deployed again to the middle-east.
But she lied.
Verna lied about everything and made him endure a hellish childhood, all for money.
His father’s money. The price he’d put on his own life.
Dex remembered the last time he saw Proctor Morgan—sitting in his wheelchair in the front doorway.
Father and son exchanged one last glance, both their faces wet with tears, before Verna shoved the twelve-year-old into the back seat of Simon’s Ford Explorer.
“Dexter, please stop crying. This is for the best. Your father will be fine.”
“We’re leaving him all alone, mom–”
“He has nurses and caregivers to help–”
“I don’t want to leave him–”
“Enough! Your father will spend the rest of his life in that wheelchair and he can barely use his hands. Am I just supposed to sacrifice the rest of my life to feed him and wipe his ass?”
She’d leaned in close to her son, speaking low and slow.
“I deserve a life, Dexter. I deserve nice things and traveling to new places. I deserve a man who’s a man. Simon will give me that life. Now, I don’t want to hear any more about it.”
Dex winced and leaned on the bed, the memories still fresh and painful.
Simon’s good life had been a new address every six months. The wannabe-gangster ran cons, scams, and lost big playing poker.
Every time he lost, Simon took it out on Verna, and she would pass the bruises on to Dex.
To be continued…
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