Invalid

There it sat, that old wheelchair. Mom had used it after she'd recieved the terminal diagnosis. Caroline sat on the swing directly in front of it. She stared at its black leather padding and the rubber grips on the handles she'd used to push her Mom around. She slouched in the kiddie swing, the plastic at her back and between her legs to keep her from falling off, while waiting for her father to return. Caroline needed that wheelchair herself now. Her legs were shriveled and ungainly.

She heard gales laughter, so she twisted about and spied the other children enjoying the play sets behind her. Caroline spotted her brother in a tunnel as he passed by one of the plastic windows. Dad was following him closely, though he would forever be glancing up to check on her. As if Caroline had the ability to run away. He looked up just then and she spun away quickly. She'd avoided people's eyes and the use of her voice since the incident.

Mom's life had been consumed by a house fire. Mom had started it herself in a suicide attempt. Turning the stove on so that there were only fumes, Mom had returned to her room, just off the kitchen and lit a candle. She'd thought her children at school and her husband at work, but Caroline had fallen sick. Dad was supposed to be back soon after dropping her brother, Eric, off. He came back just a little too late; the house had been engulfed in flame.

Caroline had been carried out first, her legs burnt and useless. Mom was said to have died immediately. She'd been the lucky one; as far as Caroline saw it. Caroline was only seven, but, as she returned her gaze to the chair before her, she knew the anger of betrayal and loss. She would always be seen as the poor invalid, even when someone talked to her normally. She could see pity in the eyes of all she dared look into.

She hated it. She hated life. But most of all... she hated her mother.