I pulled out my phone. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped it. Who should I call? The police? What proof did I have? Just a conversation I’d overheard. They’d say I’m crazy, that it’s a side effect of my medication. They were the perfect parents; I, the confused cripple.
I needed a plan. I needed to know the truth about my body.
I called an adapted taxi and asked to be taken to the general hospital, on the other side of the city, far away from the doctors who were “friends” of my parents.
During the journey, my mind replayed every memory. Every time I felt a little stronger and “mysteriously” fell ill the next day. Every time I suggested trying a new, modern therapy I saw online and they dissuaded me, saying it was “dangerous” or “a scam.” They had stolen my youth. They had stolen my legs.
When I arrived at the emergency room, I asked for a full blood test. “What’s the reason?” the triage nurse asked, looking at me curiously. “I think… I think I’ve been poisoned,” I whispered. I didn’t dare say “my parents.” It sounded too unreal.
I spent the next four hours alone in a cubicle, staring at the IV drip they’d put in to “cleanse my system” while they waited for the results. When the doctor, a serious-looking young man, came in with the paperwork, I knew I wasn’t crazy.
“Ms. Amelia,” he said, adjusting his glasses, “we’ve found alarming levels of potent muscle relaxants and sedatives in your blood. Levels that would keep a horse lying down. Who prescribed these?” “My parents… they say they’re vitamins,” I replied, my voice cracking. The doctor pressed his lips together. “These aren’t vitamins. This is a crime. And there’s something else. We’ve done a quick MRI of your spine, since you mentioned your history. Your injury… the scar is there, yes, from your childhood accident. But there’s no complete spinal cord severing. Physiologically, with proper rehabilitation, you should have mobility. Maybe not perfect, but you should be able to walk.”
Upon hearing those words, I burst into tears. It wasn’t a cry of relief, but of grief. Grief for the twenty years lost. Grief for the child who believed she was worthless. But in the midst of that weeping, an iron will was born.