No Road Back to Us

On the 1,095th day after my legs were crushed saving my wife, she revoked my phone's access to our smart home.

She had originally installed the voice controls herself, so I wouldn't have to struggle.

"Ethan, from now on, I'll be your hands and feet."

Then her first love from university, Derek Vale, came back from Las Vegas.

Derek said having everything done for me would make the nerves in my upper limbs dangerously sluggish.

Claire Mercer agreed completely. That night, she disconnected the voice-control hub for the entire apartment.

"You need to learn to pour your own water and draw the curtains. Stop treating yourself like an invalid for the rest of your life."

The day the power went out, I fell onto broken glass, wheelchair and all, trying to reach my medicine.

Claire was helping Derek cook in the kitchen.

"Will he be all right alone in the living room?" Derek asked.

"He has to go through it sometime. Once it hurts a few times, he'll learn to get himself up. When he's fully independent, I'll be free."

Hearing the smile in her voice, I swallowed the taste of blood in my throat.

I didn't call for help. I simply wrapped my cut hand in the hem of my shirt.

1

I pressed the cloth tight and waited for the bleeding to slow.

In the kitchen, food was being dished up.

Voices and footsteps moved closer to the living room.

"Careful. Don't trip," Derek warned behind her.

Claire's gaze stopped on my bleeding hand and overturned wheelchair.

Crash.

The plate slipped from her hands and smashed on the floor.

She dropped hard to her knees on the wooden floor, trembling fingers reaching to cover my wound.

"What happened? There's so much blood! Where's the first-aid kit? I'll get it!"

Her voice shook. Her eyes immediately reddened.

It was the panic three years had turned into muscle memory.

"Claire, don't."

Derek stepped forward and seized her shoulder, stopping her as she reached for the gauze.

He looked down and sighed. "The more anxious you get, the more he'll rely on these extreme methods."

Claire froze and turned to him. "What do you mean?"

"In psychology, we call it manipulation through self-harm."

"You recently cut off the voice-control hub. He's resisting your withdrawal."

"He's doing this to trigger your guilt. If you help him up now, all your efforts to make him independent will be wasted."

The living room fell silent except for my ragged breathing.

I raised my head and looked at Claire.

The stiffness in her shoulders seemed to travel down through her gaze.

In a single second, her anxious eyes turned bewildered, then suspicious, then cold.

She withdrew the hand hovering in front of me and slowly stood.

"You did this on purpose?"

"My legs were spasming because I didn't have my medication. I was only trying to get some ibuprofen."

"And your hand just happened to land on the only glass?" Her mouth twisted. She took half a step back, putting distance between us.

"When we had voice control, you used to call me through the speaker the moment you scratched a finger."

"Today the power's been out for hours, and you haven't made a sound. You were waiting here for me to come out and see your little performance, weren't you?"

I watched her guarded stance. My fingers curled without my realizing it, and blood welled up again.

Derek chose that moment to speak. "You can't blame him. In long-term care relationships, once the vulnerable party loses control of their surroundings, they inevitably resort to self-harm to control the caregiver."

"Claire, if you want to help him, you have to stand back now."

Claire took a deep breath and looked away from my face.

"Get up yourself."

I braced both hands against the glass-covered floor.

The slightest pressure on my cut palm made me gasp.

I tried to arch my back. Cold sweat fell from my forehead into my eyes, blurring my sight.

My right leg dragged limply on the floor, without sensation.

"I can't get up."

Claire drew a sharp breath and seemed about to approach, but Derek immediately caught her wrist.

"He's testing your boundaries."

Claire bit her lip. "Saving me doesn't give you the right to hold me hostage with those useless legs for the rest of my life."

"If you won't even try to climb back into your wheelchair, stay on the floor until you change your mind."

With that, she turned toward the kitchen.

"But his hand is still bleeding..." Her voice came from the end of the hall.

"His blood will clot. Pain is the price he has to pay to learn independence."