Wheelchair Man 
By Stephen Clark
stephenc@melbpc.org.au

Chapter One
	I sucked the last remnants of milkshake from the cardboard cup as I sat there in the restaurant with Melissa. "What do you think of all this?", she asked. "Apart from the soap, I mean. Do you think this is going to work out?"
	"It gives me hope", I replied. Everything was perfect. Melissa's friend Claudia was writing down everything we were saying. She had an impressive list of ideas - the artwork sales, the line drawings, the computer generated floor plans, the supermarket packing - it really did give me hope.
	Melissa smiled at my remark. "We'll start this tomorrow", she said. "I'm eager to begin. We might be able to make you rich and famous. Aren't you looking forward to that?"
	Claudia threw me a towel.
	"I - I - tomorrow?"
	"Yes. Aren't you looking forward to it?"
	"I - no! I'm not ready yet! Let's wait a bit."
	Claudia didn't see me run my fingers through my greasy hair. She was too busy scrubbing the bath.
	"Do you feel like it's all happening too fast, then? Or what?", asked Melissa.
	"Well it's just that - oh for crying out loud, I'm not ready yet! I'm not dressed! Close the door!"
	But Claudia did not receive my telepathic messages. She was standing half in and half out of the bathroom, rinsing the other towel in the bathroom with her nurse-like efficiency. I covered my nakedness with the towel. How could she expect me to dry myself with it when she was holding the door half open like that? Anyone could have walked past and seen me.
	"Y'know Stephen", she said, "You're not supposed to put a towel under your feet in the shower. The towel gets soaking wet."
	So that was it? She was punishing me for getting the towel wet? That just didn't seem fair. The nurses usually give me two towels - two towels is standard issue at shower time. Who did she think she was, going against conventions and disregarding the rules of the ward? I pointed my freezing hand up at the back of her head. All the flesh seemed to be crawling towards my fingertips, and once again I experienced the feeling that something was nestling inside my hand, something which was longing to -
	Suddenly all thought was obliterated as Claudia stepped back and her hip collided with my left foot at speed. I drew in a quick gasp - the pain - she had set it off again. All those weeks of healing and waiting - wasted. Now it was truly broken.
	"Oh I'm sorry - I'm so sorry -"
	What's broken?
	Them. My feet are broken.
	What else is broken?
	This narrative is broken.
	What else is broken?
	This wheelchair is broken.
	What else is broken?
	My life is broken.
	But isn't Melissa going to fix it?
	No. Melissa hasn't been invented yet. You're on your own. Melissa doesn't care anymore. I mean she doesn't care yet. But it's O.K., because you're safe here in your concrete enclosure, far below the real world. Your disembodied head looks up at the T.V. through a glass of water - it ripples but you can still through it and enjoy the pretty coloured lights on the screen. It doesn't cost you anything to look at them. You don't even need feet in this heaven - they have been detached from you. This is the present. Everything is clear here. There is no truth - no lies - no thick-shake - no Melissa saying "Just imagine, you could walk into a music shop and pick out anything you like. You could have your own little place, all your own, where you could have the music in one corner, the computer in another corner, the drawing board in another corner, the painting easel in another corner, the video camera in another corner, the writing desk in another corner - "
	How many corners did this place have? I was smiling; not because Melissa's speech gave me hope, but because I was grimly amused at her exaggeration. I wouldn't be able to afford any of that stuff, the music equipment, the computer; artists don't sell paintings for that much unless they're really, really famous. But the sales pitch had been excellent up to that point, and the thick-shake tasted great. Melissa had paid for it.
	"You can make your life into anything you want", she was saying. "You can be whatever you want to be. No one is going to make you do anything you don't want to do. No one is holding a gun to your head."
	Claudia wrote down, " - gun to your head."
	"O.K.", she said. "What do you want? What do you hope to achieve by holding a gun to my head?"
	It was my favourite gun; black, shiny and smooth like a computer graphic. I had never killed anyone with it, but the gun usually got me what I wanted in any case.
	"I want the chair back", I said softly. "Give it to me."
	"I don't have the chair! Now will you just put the gun down, and -"
	"Stop it! Stop it!", I interrupted, shaking the gun in a rare outburst of frustration. "And listen to me. All you have to do is call the authorities and tell them to give my wheelchair back. Tell them I'm holding a gun on you, and they'll be sure to take it seriously."
	"And what if I don't?", she asked.
	"Then I'll shoot you."
	"You wouldn't really shoot me? Not your own mother? You wouldn't kill your own mother?"
	"Yes I would kill you. Because right now, you're not my mother. You're just another authority figure who's trying to take away my wheelchair, and I have to get it back by whatever means I can."
	"Why are you doing this to me", she cried, with tears in her eyes. "I can understand you threatening the authorities like this, but your own mother - ! What's happened to you? You never used to be like this."
	I leaned back a little, drawing my spindly legs up onto the table. This was not at all how I'd planned it. If only I'd taken more precautions about keeping the wheelchair with me, this whole scene could have been avoided. But right now I was here, pointing a gun at my mother on her own kitchen table, and there was no turning back.
	"You took my wheelchair", I said firmly. "You brought it on yourself".
	"Stephen, it doesn't have to be like this. Look, I promise to phone the hospital and do my best to get your wheelchair back, but will you please put the gun down and let's talk this over rationally, like adults."
	I hesitated for a second. She wasn't one to break a promise. I should have made her promise not to take the wheelchair in the first place, but it was too late for that now. "O.K.", I said, lowering the gun down to my hip. "I'll keep the gun down here. But I'm not putting it away until after you make the phone call."
	"Stephen, you -" She stopped and let out a frustrated sigh. "You're doing this to yourself. The one you're hurting most is yourself. You're hurting me too - I'm going through hell right now - but it's mostly because I'm so concerned about your future, not because you're - threatening my life. Maybe I shouldn't have taken your wheelchair, maybe that was a mistake, but don't you see the reasons why I did it? It wasn't out of revenge or anything like that."
	"I don't care what your reasons were", I said. "I just want it back."
	"Stephen, your attachment to that wheelchair is sick, don't you see that? You don't need a wheelchair! Your feet aren't broken anymore! Do you want to be stuck in that thing for the rest of your life? Is that your plan?"
	"No."
	She was going to ask that question. The question that I couldn't answer. That's what it was leading to. "So when's it going to be, hmm? When are you going to stand up"
	"I - I need a bit more time."
	"How much time?"
	The cardboard cup folded under my grip. I didn't want to answer.
	"Do you feel like it's all happening too fast, then? Or what?"
	"No, it's just that... well... do you promise not to tell Mum and Dad?"
	Melissa laughed. "Of course", she said.
	"O.K.", I murmured. "August the eighth."
	"August the eighth?"
	"Yes. That's the date at which I'll be willing to stand up."
	"O.K. Well that's just in a couple of months. We'll start then. You're going to have more money and you'll be making the most of your talents. Are you looking forward to it?"
	"Yes."
	"Why August the eighth? Did you decide on that date just then?"
	"No, I decided on the date a long time ago. You see I have been planning this for a long time - it's not a rash decision made in a temporary bad mood, it's a well thought out plan that takes everything into consideration. I know this explanation will be of no comfort to my family and other people, but I am a callous apathetic person who is not capable of feeling love for anyone or caring about them. So I am indifferent to your pain. Nevertheless I urge you to forget about me and get on with your lives after I am gone. And don't blame yourselves because no one is to blame for this but me and there's nothing you could have done to prevent it. Signed, Stephen Clark, August the eighth."
	Doctor Watties looked at me and lowered the sheet of paper. He was observing my reaction at hearing my own suicide note. I continued fiddling with my brake handle and tried to keep my face expressionless.
	"So that's the suicide note", he said. There was a long silence. This was not the first time I'd had a one-to-one session with Doctor Watties, but it was the first time I'd met him in an upright position. Just a few days ago the medical doctors had said I was well enough to sit up; and now I was in a wheelchair. My wheelchair.
	The doctor continued: "I couldn't help but notice that you dated the note "August the eighth" even though your suicide attempt wasn't until... until...", he glanced at his clipboard, "January 24th. What's the reasoning behind that?"
	I stared out the window as I replied. "The note was written on August the eighth. That was the day I decided that life was not worth living anymore. I waited until January 24th before killing myself because I wanted to make sure suicide was the right choice... I wanted to see if anything would come along to change my life."
	That was a lie, at least partly. I'd postponed the suicide a number of times out of fear and doubt, telling myself that my life was not yet bad enough and that I would commit suicide as soon as I reached a real low point. But I didn't want the doctor to think I'd been in a state of indecision.
	"But nothing came along?", he said at last.
	"No", I mumbled.
	"Did you have doubts about the suicide during that time? Did you go back and forth on it?"
	"No", I said, assuring myself that the only doubts had been about when the inevitable suicide would occur.
	"Hmmm. What about now? Do you still feel like you want to kill yourself or hurt yourself in any way?
	It was a question that had hardly occurred to me as I lay in my hospital bed day after day after day after day I'VE DIED AND GONE TO HEAVEN! after day after day, and the reason it hardly occurred to me was because there was no reminder of my past life, the dark past full of terror that I had escaped from. The slate had been wiped clean.
	"No", I said.
	"Why not?"
	"Because there is no stress on me now. And because the future looks brighter."
	"Mmmm. Good."
	It's looking brighter all the time.
	Mmmm. Good.
	Because it's only just begun.
	Mmmm. Good.
	And I don't have to make my own plans.
	Mmmm. Good.
	Because someone else is making them for me.
	Mmmm. Good.
	And her name is Melissa. But as she sits on the other side of the table, smiling at me, I realize that time has come to a halt. And in that frozen moment I see that the cool grey eyes of Doctor Watties are staring right through Melissa's eye sockets. The second hand on the wall clock is still, but Melissa's face is moving. New pimples are rising to the surface; the existing pimples enlarge and become filled with pus. All along her chin they come, fueled from below. They fight for room on her smiling lips, they cluster around her nose, even inside her nostrils where the nose-hairs sprout. Her forehead, her cheeks - every part of her face is covered with zits and they get bigger and bigger until she acquires a red, lumpy texture. I should never have allowed myself to look at her face. Now my eyes are locked in position and I'm forced to stare at the hideous, deformed monster that my sister has become. And all the while I can hear a voice in my head that says "Isn't Melissa in the skin-care products selling business? Doesn't she sell pimple cream?" This moment will never come to an end. Who do I have to kill to make it stop?
	But no, there will be no more killing today - that's all in my past. Or is it in my future? It's hard to tell, when I don't have a watch. I don't even have a wrist to put a watch on, and I don't care because everything is so peaceful here in bed. Everything is provided for me, no one is going to hurt me, no one is going to tell me to get out of bed -
	"Stephen", said a voice, "Get out of bed."
	Who's there? Who's telling me to get up? I don't even understand the concept of getting out of bed anymore. You may as well ask a normal person to move in the fourth dimension.
	"Stephen, it's time to get up."
	Time? There is no time here. The sun will never rise, and I will never get out of bed and go to work, or school, or - or -
	"Stephen, we're locking the dorm in five minutes. You have to get up. Come on."
	It was Bob, the big nurse. I opened my eyes and saw his middle aged moustached face looking down its nose at me. Jill was hovering in the background, I noticed - evidently she had asked Bob for help in getting me up, after her unsuccessful efforts. Perhaps Bob would have been a help to her if her task had been to rough me up or take my money or something, but he would be no help in persuading me to get up, because I wasn't afraid of him.
	"Are you going to get up?", he asked.
	"No."
	"You are going to get up. Staying in bed is not an option."
	Internally I sneered at his words. Who was he to tell me what to do? I could do whatever I wanted. No one had authority over me. "I'll just stay here", I said quietly.
	"No you won't! You get out of that bed right now!"
	Bob was just the type to be barking out orders while he had no real way of enforcing them. I felt safe from him, lying under the bedclothes in a totally relaxed position. There was nothing he could do.
	"Stephen, if you don't get up, we'll not only drag you out of bed, we'll lock your room and lock the wheelchair in here; you'll have no access to it."
	"I'm staying here."
	"I'll take you down to HDU."
	The HDU was the High Dependency Unit, where all the really sick patients stayed temporarily. It was kind of the equivalent of an Intensive Care Unit. I had never been in there - it might have been fun in some way to stay there just for the experience. As for shutting me off from the wheelchair, that sounded like an empty threat, just like a million empty threats of the past.
	"I don't care", I murmured.
	"O.K., let's go", said Bob. He pulled the bedclothes right off the bed, exposing my T-shirt and boxer shorts. Jill strolled forward; she was prepared to lend a hand. "You grab his feet, I'll grab his arms."
	I frowned at my enemies as they gathered around me. Waves of hatred emanated from my brain. You don't tell me what to do. I tell you what to do, because I have the power. The two nurses withstood the onslaught of hatred and grabbed me at each end. Jill was holding my skinny, stick-like legs with their useless feet attached. Her eyes followed Bob, wondering if he was going to stand by his threat of shutting me off from the wheelchair.
	You don't do this to me! I have the power!
	The wheelchair. My eyes turned towards it. Something was about to break.
	You don't do this to me! I can wave death in your face!
	The wheelchair. We walked right past it. Something was about to break.
	You DON'T DO THIS TO ME!!
	The wheelchair. I watched it recede. Something broke.
	"Well that's it. It's broken."
	Bang!
	"Someone call the repair man. We won't be able to get any chips out of this thing until it's fixed."
	Bang! Domenica thumped the snack machine with her fist, but it failed to respond.
	"What did you do to it?", asked another patient.
	"Nothing! I just put my coin into it and pressed the button. It's robbed me!"
	There was silence for a few seconds in the dining room as the mental patients sat around and dined on their biscuits and coffee. I was sitting at a table by myself, writing my diary. There was not much to write about on a day like this. "What are you writing about, Stephen?" asked someone.
	"Nothing much. Records of events, feelings." I glanced about nervously.
	"Yeah? It looks as though you've filled a whole page there. I'm surprised you can find anything to write about in this place."
	"Oh I don't know", said a second mental patient. "He could probably write a whole essay about the leg of this table." He tapped the table-leg with his spoon.
	Someone else joined the conversation, saying "Give him a single word, and he could write..."
	But the comment was interrupted by Domenica. "I'm sick of this stupid machine!", she cried. "Maybe if I give it a good rocking, it will let go of some of those snacks. They're just hanging there..."
	Everyone turned to watch as she pushed the top of the machine up against the wall and let it fall down again with a resounding crash. The packets of snack food swung wildly on their fastenings, but none of them fell. Somebody laughed. "I think that one's coming loose, Domenica", they said. "Do it again."
	I was laughing internally as I set my pen on the paper. "Domenica knows how to have a good time", I wrote. "So wild, they have to keep her locked up for long stretches. But not tonight. I can't imagine having enough guts to abuse the snack machine; she's running the risk of being caught by the nurses and locked up again. I don't know why I should be concerned about stuff like that, but ever since that incident with Bob and Jill..."
	Crash! The machine came down for a fourth time. Finally one of the packets broke free on the downswing.
	"A packet of Frenchips came down that time", said someone. "Grab it!"
	Domenica pushed her hand into the dispensing slot at the bottom and pulled out the chips. She held them up triumphantly and everybody cheered.
	"Free chips!", she cried as she ripped the packet open and sat down with the group.
	"Do it again, Domenica!", said one of the patients. "Get some more chips! Maybe you can get enough for all of us!"
	"Mmm! Mmm!"
	There was an air of excitement in the dining room, a break from the usual boredom. As another patient stood up and walked over to the machine, I wrote "...I've become afraid of conflict. I find myself just wanting to play by the rules and avoid causing any argument. Even sitting here watching Domenica's mischief, I feel like I'm somehow a part of it and risking punishment. Ever since last Saturday I've been feeling so parano...'
	I stopped in the middle of a word, as I often did when other people were in the room. "Sean!", said someone, "I think there's a nurse coming down."
	"Who cares", murmured Domenica, tilting her head back.
	"Well is it a nurse, or not?"
	The other patient glanced down the corridor again. "No, it's just a couple of people. Not nurses."
	A few seconds later, the two visitors entered the room. They were young women aged around twenty-three. The first one had soft, light brown hair, turning blonde in parts from irregular dyeing. She might have been considered very pretty, but I didn't think of her in that way because she was my sister, Melissa. The other one had dark hair tied back; her face was vaguely familiar. But even as they walked towards me I was not sure if they were together or not.
	"Stephen! Hello! This is my friend Claudia, the nurse that I told you about."
	I nodded at Claudia. The name reminded me of the nurse at Marramlake Hospital, memorable only because she failed to give me a second towel in the shower. Could it have been the same nurse? The face was similar, maybe; she didn't recognize me, and she wasn't saying anything. Perhaps it wasn't important.
	"Whatcha been doing?", asked Melissa.
	"Nothing much. Just writing."
	"Would you like to go out to McDonalds or something, where we can talk things over?"
	"O.K." I packed up my things and pulled on the wheels of my wheelchair. "You'll have to ask the nurses."
	"I have", she replied. I felt like I was escaping from the cage of threats and restraints that my hospital had become. In my sister's company I would be safe from the persecutors. Melissa was inviting me into her universe in the clouds where everyone was rich and happy, and there was no conflict. I looked at all the patients we were passing in the corridor; they would all be left behind in the underworld for a few hours.
	"Does this wheelchair fold up?", asked Claudia as we headed for the exit.
	"Yes."
	"We can put it in your boot, then", she said to Melissa. The wheelchair would prove to be no problem. I could take it into the restaurant with me. We went out to Melissa's car; the night was cold with traces of moisture in the air. Melissa gave me a push over the damp uneven ground. Soon I was being transferred from the wheelchair to the car-seat and the chair was being folded up.
	"How long will it be before you get out of here?", asked Melissa. "Have you heard?" She climbed into the driver's seat.
	"June the sixteenth. They told me a couple of days ago."
	"Oh. So you're going home then." Melissa was turning the key in the ignition but her car wouldn't start. "Are you looking forward to it?"
	"No not really. I don't care one way or the other."
	I watched Melissa's foot play around on the accelerator and thought that my legs probably weren't strong enough to drive a car, even if I'd had a driver's license which I didn't.
	"This thing just doesn't want to start", she said.
	Melissa's car had a reputation for being temperamental.
	"Strange, it was O.K. on the way over here."
	The car whined the same mangled note over and over again. The three of us were waiting for that moment of ignition. The moment when something would explode inside - it was bound to happen sooner or later. The fuel was just sitting there in the tank, waiting to be ignited. She was pushing the fire closer and closer to the petrol - and so was he, but neither of them knew - exactly what was going to happen. My wheelchair -
	Finally it sprang into life.
	"My wheelchair!"
	There were no more words, just grunts and roars as I struggled to break free of Bob's grasp. My arms were grown strong from wheel-pushing, but Bob's were stronger. He tightened his grasp. "Now now Stephen, let's not cause a scene", he said.
	I was unfazed. So far the inner demon was only partly unleashed. "You can do it", I thought. "If you only let it all out once in a lifetime, let this be the moment." As the thrashing rose to a climax I completely lost my sanity. A scream emerged from my throat - it was the scream of a being so angry, it was ecstatic. Nothing could have contained the power and violence that was emanating from me. Bob finally lost his grip and he called out to Jill, "Lower him! Press the button! Quick!"
	But Jill had already pressed it. It was the button mounted on her waist which set the alarm off and brought nurses running from all over the ward. As the shrill notes of the alarm rang out, I crawled across the floor on my elbows. The alarm was loud, but almost drowned out by the sound of my own strained breathing. When I reached the wheelchair I gripped the metal bars at the front and wrapped my arms around them. More than anything I was relieved that my precious wheelchair was once again in my possession, and nothing would separate it from me now. The other muscles in my body relaxed and I closed my eyes. It would have been nice if I could have shut my mind off from reality right then. But all I could do was decide I didn't care about anything the nurses did from that point on.
	"What's happening?", said a voice. It was another male nurse.
	"This idiot - this jackass - tried to bait me. He refused to get up, then when we dragged him out he tried to go back for his wheelchair. Deliberately trying to provoke us."
	Already I could feel the other nurse handling me by the shoulders. "What are we gonna do? Take him to the seclusion room?"
	"Yeah come on let's get him up." Hands were pulling at me from all angles now. The wheelchair tilted upwards. All the hands on my skin might have been a revolting invasion of my personal space, but I don't care what happens to my body now. My body is not me. It's a useless add-on - I don't really need it - only my arms were still connected, gripping the wheelchair, but even they were falling away.
	"Let go of the wheelchair, Stephen! Let go and stand up! Get up off the floor! Stand up!"
	Why were they shouting orders at me? Did they think I was confused? In need of guidance? Only my arms were still working - the rest of me is dead weight. I could feel the nurses pulling at my arms and disentangling them from the wheelchair, and I knew they would eventually succeed. It didn't really matter. Nothing matters now. I kept holding on, with my hands and then my fingertips, if only because my brain could not bring itself to voluntarily let go of the wheelchair under any circumstances. Finally there was nothing but air under my fingertips, and my body is completely lifeless.
	There is no point in exerting any muscles. All effort is wasted. Now.
	"Stand up, Stephen! Stand up and walk! Push your legs up! Stand up!" Even now I can hear the echoes of those strange voices, repeating their orders over and over again as if I were deaf. I am alive but my body is dead. I can hear, but only the internal voices, and they never say anything worth listening to.
	My safe haven is coming back to me, the concrete enclosure where time does not pass. I guess I can relax now. I hate to think about Bob and Jill dragging me away from the wheelchair, but it haunts my mind and I can't get rid of it. What really bugs me is, I don't even know if it happened in the past, the present, or the future. Perhaps these events never happened; perhaps they were just a story in a book or a movie. But I can't recall the title of the story. I once wanted to become a writer - I used to write about my own experiences every day. Once I wrote a science-fiction novel; well I don't know if you'd call it a novel, but it was a long story and I tried to get it published but no publisher would touch it. Actually I only sent it to two publishers, and the first one said they don't do science fiction. After I received the rejection letter from the second one I couldn't be bothered sending it to anyone else. It's still just lying there, unseen, in a brown envelope, in the - in - now where the hell is it? I'm not sure where it is, but I think it's at home.
	"What's it about?", asked Melissa.
	This is not right.
	"Er - well it's in two parts. The first part is about the lives of five art students while their city is invaded by a giant lizard."
	My mind was clearing for a second there, but now it's clouding up again.
	"The second part is about these two giant aliens who come to earth and kill everyone except these two art students. So the students try to escape into a different dimension."
	"Could I have a read of it, when you find it?", asked Melissa.
	Maybe it's for the best.
	"Yes", I replied. It was a sunny day in June, and Melissa was wheeling me slowly along the paths of the psychiatric hospital. She had never visited me here before - it was the first time she'd seen me in a few months. I appreciated the chance to have someone to talk to, as the psychiatric staff had been avoiding conversations with me as of late.
	"So is writing what you want to do with your life? Do you think you'd like to make a living off that?"
	"No."
	It was strange to hear Melissa asking question after question - she had never really seemed interested in me before. Even when she was living at home, she had always been a very detached sister, staying out of my world.
	"Then what sort of area do you want to get into? Is there one thing that you've really got your heart set on?"
	A memory stirred. "I'd like to get into electronic music", I said. "I mean when I get some more money I'm planning to buy some more music equipment like a sequencer and a drum machine and I'd connect everything up with MIDI. I - I have music in my head which I'd like to express."
	"Really?" Melissa's voice took on the excited happy tone that I would become accustomed to in the next few days. "That sounds interesting! I have a friend who has a set up like that - his name is Todd. He has a whole lot of keyboards connected up together and he uses his computer to control them. He makes his own electronic music. Is that the sort of thing you mean?"
	"Yes, that sounds right."
	"Whenever I go to his house I have a listen to his latest piece of music and he can play it on the computer. We can see it coming up on the screen and everything. It's very good. Sometimes I ask him to record a copy of the music onto my tape for me. I think you should meet Todd - you should come over to his house and have a look at what he's got."
	"Mm. Mm."
	"You could have a play around with his keyboards, and create a piece of music - I'm sure you'd get along really well with him."
	"Yes - well -"
	I was doubtful about the getting along well with him, and she could sense it. "You and Todd have a common interest.", she said. "See, that's how you make friends - you find someone whom you have a common interest with."
	I looked at my lap, still full of doubt. No matter how much we had in common, I would still be too quiet to make friends with this guy. But still, going over to Todd's place seemed like a good idea.
	"So do you want me to drive you over to Todd's house sometime?", asked Melissa. "I'll have to ask him when he's free, of course."
	"Yes."
	We came to a crossroads, and Melissa kept talking. "Which way do we go now? I think we've been down all these paths before. Oh well, we can go down this one again I suppose. So - how have the nurses been treating you?"
	"Well."
	"Pardon?"
	"They been treating me well."
	"Are there any nurses that you really like? That you have a special connection with?"
	I thought for a moment. "No."
	"Are there any nurses that you really don't like?"
	"Um - there's one nurse named Connie that I really don't like."
	"Yeah? Why?"
	"Because she - she always - she tells me they're going to take away my wheelchair by force, and that I'm going to jail if I try to keep what doesn't belong to me. She says I'm being childish and lazy. She says it's a cop-out."
	"Hmmm." Melissa seemed deep in thought. "I have a friend who's a nurse", she said. "Her name is Claudia. If you spoke to her I'm sure you'd find her very understanding. You could talk to her about anything, and she wouldn't say it's a cop-out or anything. I ought to introduce you to her sometime. You'd like her."
	"Mmmm." It seemed that Melissa had a lot of contacts. She had friends in high places. That's what you need to be successful. Not that Melissa was successful, but she was on a higher plane than me, that was for sure. The path tilted downwards and I no longer needed her help in pushing me. She walked alongside the wheelchair.
	"What happened to your knees?", she asked, pointing to the scabby red marks just below my shorts. They were just grazes - barely any blood had been shed. The funny thing was, I couldn't remember exactly when it had happened. It could have been when the nurses dragged my limp carcass out into the corridor. It could have been when they dropped me hard on the floor and reached for their key to the seclusion room. Or it could have been inside the seclusion room, where they dropped me again, but that was on a tiny mattress so there was probably no damage done. They proceeded to take off my clothes.
	"Raise your arms, Stephen! Raise your arms so we can take off your shirt."
	"He's too bone-idle for that, aren't you?", commented Bob. He added in an undertone, "Try to bait me, would you?"
	I lay there and tried to detach my mind from my body as rough hands stripped me naked. There must have been a reason for removing a patient's clothes after a skirmish like this one, but it was lost on me. There was no fight left in my puny, lifeless body; if they had tried to kill me, or rape me, I'm sure I would not have resisted.
	"O.K." said Bob. "Put on the pyjamas. We'll be coming back later." There was the sound of a heavy door closing. Then a key in a lock. Then fading footsteps. Then - there was peace and quiet.
	After about a minute I opened my eyes.
	After another two minutes I was starting to get cold. I sat up slowly and looked around. My boxer shorts were around my shins; I stretched out and pulled them up. That was a start.
	A pair of pyjamas lay on the floor next to the mattress. I couldn't possibly put them on. They were not mine. I would have to be a lot colder than this to put on pyjamas that were not mine. The mattress was wrapped in a sheet and a blanket; I pulled them up and wrapped them around myself.

	"It's a hard knock life for us
	It's a hard knock life for us..."

	I was curled up in a ball.

	"No one cares for you a smidge
	When you're in an orphanage..."

	I was singing a song from the film "Annie". It was just a faint sound, sung very softly and out of tune.
	
	"It's a hard knock l..."

	The last word was choked by tears as I remembered that I was not in an orphanage and all my problems were self inflicted. I wanted to sing loudly and angrily but the tears would not let me. The tears were strangling my voice and clouding my thinking.
	There were no power points in the seclusion room. The light fitting was set into the concrete ceiling. A sturdy metal grille covered the window. There was a plastic bed-pan in the corner. The room was designed to take abuse, but I wasn't going to test its sturdiness; I'd had enough violence for one day. The conflict with the nurses had been a momentary spark of ecstatic anger which resulted in a long and drawn out period of depression - it wasn't worth it. I was feeling lower than I'd ever felt.
	Why had I let it happen? I knew I had more power than the nurses, yet somehow they had taken away my wheelchair, the one thing I was fighting for. What was wrong with me? Did I think it would be fun to have a scuffle with the nurses? If only I had used my power in the right way, I would have been sitting in my wheelchair instead of on the mattress, half naked and wrapped in blankets.
	The angry scene played itself over and over in my mind. I heard their words and felt their touches, each as painful as eachother. Nurse Bob had been taking his aggression out on me, releasing his inner violent nature - and I had been doing the same, I suppose, but then I was allowed to. I was a mental patient.
	It was horrible - I couldn't bear the thought of it -
	"You've got to do something!", said my inner voice.
	My face crumpled up again.
	"You've got to do something! You can't let them treat you like this. If you let them get away with it this time, then they'll know you're weak minded and they'll take advantage of it. You know what the problem is? They're not taking you seriously. You gotta teach them a lesson. You gotta teach them a lesson they'll never forget. 'Cause once you hammer it into their heads, they'll not only give you back your wheelchair, they'll give you anything you want!"
	I thumped my fist on the concrete floor and left it there. It was time to get psyched up. I had made a resolve to keep the wheelchair no matter what, and part of that resolve was to kill anybody who tried to take it away from me. Bob had not only tried - he had succeeded in wrenching it from my grasp, and that meant I had to go to my emergency backup plan of killing him in revenge. He was good as dead.
	Are we really going to kill him?
	Yes!
	Are we going to chicken out?
	No!
	Are we going to show mercy?
	No!
	Are we going to care about his wife and children?
	No!
	Are we going to be punished for the crime?
	No!
	Can anybody stop us?
	No!
	I had a picture burning in my mind. It was a picture of Bob falling to the floor in the doorway of the seclusion room, while blood from his chest slammed backward with such force that it hit the wall behind. Bob falling at an awkward angle, his body beyond repair. A nurse peering in cautiously to see what had happened. Me saying in a barely human growl, "The wheelchair! It's mine!" The nurse screaming and running to get help. Me scrambling forward to the doorway on my stomach, my elbow sliding in Bob's warm blood. The authorities cowering before me. Giving me back my wheelchair. Me mobile again. No one daring to arrest me. No one knowing what to do about me. Me ruling over the hospital. Me in charge. Today the hospital, tomorrow...
	When the key hit the lock I was prepared. I was lying on my side with my knees up to my chin - my hand was hidden under the blanket. My madness was complete. Upon hearing the sound I looked up at the door. My moment was soon to arrive.
	The door opened.
	It was Bob.
	"Hello Stephen", said Bob in a normal voice.
	With a swift, graceful motion I pulled out my arm from under the blanket and lunged it towards him. At the same time he turned his head to look at something down the corridor. He didn't realise how much danger he was in.
	He didn't see what was at the end of my arm.
	Time has come to a halt.

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	

	"And just before Melissa dropped me off, she said that she'd arrange to take me to Todd's house in a few days to check out his music equipment."
	The dining room was nearly empty now - the only patients left were Sean (struggling with the snack machine), and me (writing my diary). Sean wasn't speaking to me; he rarely said a word to anyone. I continued writing:
	"So where would I be without my sister Melissa and her friends in high places? If not for them I'd be searching through the employment section and applying for the first job I find that doesn't say "experience necessary". They're going to take care of my life and make sure it works out right."
	I looked at my watch. Nearly time for bed. I had to finish off this diary entry before the nurses came.
	"I'm back in the ward now, hurrying to finish this diary - it's kinda strange to be dumped back in Losersville after spending time on Melissa's higher plane of reality. Sean is here - he is trying to stick his arms up through the dispensing slot of the snack machine and get some free snacks. What a pathetic sight."
	I watched Sean's hands grasping and fumbling.
	"He did actually succeed in grabbing a chocolate bar, though."
	I laid down a fullstop.
	"Stephen! Sean! Time for bed!", called a nurse.
	Sean slid the chocolate bar into his pocket.
	I laid down two more fullstops and closed the diary.


Chapter Two

	Beep! Beep!
	The ECG machine has just been turned on. Now here's where it starts getting confusing. Because I'm lying here in the Intensive Care Unit, connected to all these machines, but is it in the past, or the present? It could even be in the future, but then it would have to be the fairly immediate future, because I'm still in this familiar place.
	Beep! Beep! Beep!
	That's my heartbeat I'm listening to. The ECG machine is dividing time into little segments, like a clock. Could it be that time has finally started up again? Have I broken out of stasis? I'm not sure if I like this. My vision is clear - not a trace of rippling. And my feet - I'm getting some pain down there. Make it stop!
	A nurse came 'round the corner -
	A nurse never comes 'round the corner! What's happening? Oh it's O.K. This is all in the past. It hasn't happened yet.
	A nurse came 'round the corner and stopped by my bed. "Hello Stephen!", she said. "My name is Anita. I'm the nurse who'll be taking care of you this afternoon."
	Afternoon? How long had I been asleep? I didn't even know what day it was. I looked at my wrist but there was no watch there; only a plastic band with my name on it. I glanced at my other wrist; there was a needle in it, connected to a long tube which ran up a metal pole with one of those bags of fluid at the top of it. Anita was asking a question.
	"Do you know where you are?"
	She was a young nurse, but I remember thinking it's a pity she was so ugly.
	"Uh - no."
	"You're in Marramlake Hospital. Do you remember?"
	"No."
	"Did you just wake up?"
	"Yes."
	"What's the last thing you remember?"
	I searched through my memory half-heartedly, not sure if I wanted to find what was buried there. It was something to do with a secret plan. A way out. A handwritten note folded up small in my pocket. A footbridge. I decided it was all too vague.
	"I'm not sure", I said.
	"Well, you've been taken to the Intensive Care Unit. This is the place where you'll get all the special care you need, for your chest problem. So here we'll be babying you a bit more than usual. This is a fairly quiet place..."
	Chest problem? How did that happen? Was it case of mistaken identity, or did I really have a chest problem? I had to rethink everything.
	"...that low roar you hear is the air conditioning, that's nothing to worry about."
	I couldn't hear a low roar. The strangled hiss of the oxygen mask was louder than anything, apart from the ECG. There was rubber clamped to my face - I could smell the oxygen coming to me through a long plastic hose attached to the mask. How long had it been there? I felt like it had become fused to my head somehow.
	"So how are your feet?", asked Anita.
	"They're O.K., a bit painful."
	"Yeah? If you had to rate the pain on a scale between one and ten, where one is no pain and ten is terrible agony, what would the number be?"
	"Err... five. No, six."
	"Aah. I think the pain will be decreasing as time goes on. How about the pain in your back? How would you rate that between one and ten?"
	"Two."
	"Well that's great. Now the next thing I've got to do..."
	"Hang on - what's this about my back? What's wrong with it?"
	Anita looked at me with a worried expression. "Don't you remember?", she said. "According to your chart, you have two broken vertebrae, down at the base of your spine."
	"Oh. O.K.", I said, thinking she would surely give me any more information that I needed to know.
	"Now the next thing I've got to do is take some blood from you. I'll try to do it as painlessly as possible - hang on, I'll just get the - the - thing -"
	There was no sunlight in this place. I felt like I was underground. Fluorescent lights provided a warm, soft glow to everything, though none were directly above my bed. I remembered now what had happened - I'd pieced it together in my brain, and there was no longer any doubt about why I was in hospital. As for the exact nature of my injuries, that was yet to be determined.
	I didn't really know which part of the hospital I was in. I couldn't have known that the building was of a sleek modern design with a courtyard out front, or that the courtyard extended around the side of the building. As Anita fumbled around with the hypodermic syringe I scanned the pattern on the ceiling. It was composed of squares, arranged in much the same way as the concrete slabs in the courtyard were arranged. A wheelchair rolling across the squares would make a constant thunk, thunk, thunk sound. The building had six storeys above courtyard level, and they were quite an awe inspiring sight to look at. My parents could have helped me wheel the wheelchair across the concrete squares, but they knew I preferred to push the wheels myself. After all, I hardly had a chance to get around in the wheelchair when I was in the ward. And getting around in the wheelchair was fun.
	"So how does it feel to be out in the open air?", asked Mum.
	"S'good."
	"Makes a change from lying in bed all day, doesn't it?"
	"Mm."
	Thunk, thunk, thunk. This was the first time I'd been out in the open air. My parents were leading me around the hospital. The flat concrete area surrounded the main building on three sides; there were no people on the far side of the building, but the view was terrific You could see the whole north end of Melbourne from there. My parents had a better view than me, naturally, as they were standing up.
	"Do you want your feet covered up? The blanket's coming off there -" The thunk, thunk, thunk stopped temporarily as Dad adjusted the blanket on my raised legs. This was the sort of wheelchair that kept one's legs horizontal at all times. It had a wooden board sticking out the front. With my bruised feet hidden safely under the blanket, Dad went over and talked to Mum.
	I looked up at the cloud reflections on the windows as I rolled casually across the courtyard. This hospital was built on the side of a hill. The front of the courtyard was at ground level, but the rear of the courtyard was about ten metres off the ground, and surrounded by a low concrete wall. It was the wall which prevented me from seeing out across the countryside. I rolled up alongside it and tried to look through the narrow gaps in the concrete.
	What were my parents doing? Weren't they keeping an eye on me? Weren't they worried that I might heave myself up onto the wall, drag my legs behind me, sit on the wall, and then jump off? It was about ten metres sheer drop, and there was a road down there which would be sure to kill me if I landed on my head. My parents were too far away to stop me. But I didn't jump. The option of suicide was no longer in the big picture, thanks to the intensive psychiatric sessions I'd been having with Dr. Watties in the past few weeks. But weren't they worried - that I might still be suicidal? That I might have been just projecting a non-suicidal facade in order to trick them? That I might have been waiting for an opportunity just like this?
	"No don't be silly Stephen", I told myself.
	I wished I had something to fight against.
	But the hospital was a beautiful place, and I was starting a new life; a life full of pleasures where stress and work were in a different universe. So what was the problem?
	Beep! Beep! The ECG machine was starting up again.
	"What was that 'beep beep', Stephen?", asked Dad.
	"Oh, that was my watch", I mumbled.
	"What time is it?"
	Just gone seven o'clock.
	"But why does your watch go 'beep beep' at seven o'clock?"
	No, it can't be that early. It must be eight.
	"My watch beeps on every hour."
	Not eight. Try again. It's nine.
	I don't think I even have a watch.
	Aaauugh! It's ten. On the pain scale. And the longer she held the needle in there, the more painful in was. "Sorry about this", she said. "I can't seem to find the vein. I'm going to have to try again."
	Anita pulled the needle out and the pain slowly receded. I couldn't believe she'd missed the vein twice in a row. She was so incompetent, it was almost funny. She'd been treating me like a child, babying me as she put it, but now she was causing me extreme pain by accident. As it receded, I felt another pain growing - in the tip of my right index finger. But maybe pain was not the right word; it felt oddly pleasurable. I looked at the finger. It was topped with a dark bruise which extended about half an inch down, and when I looked closer I could've sworn I saw a tiny indentation on the very tip. "Now that's strange", I said. "Have you seen -"
	Anita paused in her work to look up at my half question. "What? Have I seen what?"
	"No, nothing", I replied. The indentation was gone, and the bruise was fading away as I looked. It must have been a trick of the light. Anita proceeded to try again with the blood extraction, and this time succeeded. Then she asked, "Would you like to turn over onto your side?"
	I nodded.
	"'Cause you've been lying on your back since you got here, haven't you?"
	I nodded. It was getting rather uncomfortable. The process of turning me onto my side was a complicated one, but she went ahead and did it. Extra pillows were brought in to support me; there was a pillow at my front, two pillows at my back, a pillow between my legs, a pillow under my feet - I felt like my entire body was encased in pillows, and it was the most comfortable thing I could imagine. It almost made up for the syringe incident. I closed my eyes and started to go to sleep. But then someone else came in. It was a man in a white coat.
	"Stephen Clark?", he said. He came around to the side of the bed so that I could see him clearly. "My name is Dr. Quack. I'm glad to see that you're awake at last. I just need to ask you a few questions for my paperwork here. Uh - the paramedics tell me your feet were broken when you jumped off a footbridge. Is that true?"
	"Yeah."
	"Can you tell me why you did that?"
	"I wanted to commit suicide."
	His pen moved on his clipboard. "Uh huh. And why was that?"
	I answered the same phrase I had been saying to myself over and over for the past two years, "Just sick of life."
	"Is this first time you've done something like this?"
	"Yes."
	The doctor nodded. "O.K., thankyou Stephen, I'll let you be now." He put a few final marks on his clipboard and walked away. I was wondering what Anita thought of all this - was she learning for the first time that I was a suicidee? Would this shatter the illusions she had about me? I could've sworn she was treating me just like a child, caring for me like a mother cares for a son. But children do not commit suicide, and - where was Anita, anyway? I looked around. She must have left while the Doctor was talking to me.
	Maybe she wouldn't treat you like a child if you didn't act so much like a child.
	Who's acting like a child?
	Something is gripping me now. It's a sense of determination, mixed with fear. And something else is being gripped -
	"You sit there, refusing to co-operate, refusing to accept help, without any logical reason; you're just behaving like a spoilt child."
	My hands were gripping the wheels of the wheelchair. One on each side. It was a symbolic grip - even though the authorities had not yet tried to take the wheelchair away from me, I still felt the need to hold on.
	"I'm not behaving like a spoilt child!"
	"Yes you are!!" Nurse Yvonne nodded her head and opened her eyes wide, emphasizing each word. She thought she was winning the argument. But I was just getting warmed up.
	"A child would have knuckled down and obeyed orders a long time ago", I said. "And besides, a child usually wants to grow up as fast as possible, doesn't he? A child wants to be independent. That's not - that's not me"
	Pity about the stumble, I thought. This conversation had something of an audience; there was Bill the grumpy old man in the opposite bed, and Vaclav the twenty-two year old chap in the adjacent bed. Vaclav was flat on his back, unable to sit up, just as I had been a few weeks ago. I sometimes wondered what he was doing in a rehabilitation centre.
	Yvonne came at me from a different angle. "And why don't you want to be independent?", she asked.
	"I just - I don't see why I should put unnecessary strain on my legs."
	"Oh, and walking around is unnecessary strain, is it?"
	"Yes. As long as I've got a wheelchair, there's no need for me to use my legs."
	"Stephen", she said. "When you choose the life of a disabled person, you're choosing a life that requires people to help you every step of the way. If you don't get out of that wheelchair, then you'll be forcing other people to help you and care for you all the time - and that's the immaturity thing again, because only a child needs that much support and attention. Do you want to go back to being a child?"
	I ignored the last question, as it seemed to be a diversion from the topic. "Look", I said. "There are many disabled people who live full and enriching lives. After the initial stages, they don't need much help - they can live independently and - and - "
	I trailed off. Yvonne was shaking her head. "You don't understand the amount of help they need to get to that stage of independence. If you think anyone's going to work their butts off trying to give you a rich and fulfilling life as a disabled person, then you'll have to think again. You're not disabled."
	"Well", I said, rolling my wheels backwards away from her, "I can manage just fine by myself for now."
	Yvonne folded her arms. "Yes well you'd better be careful Stephen. This hospital doesn't help people who don't want to be helped. It won't be long now before the doctors give up and send you home, and then there'll be no one to help you walk again. You'll have to do it all by yourself. Oh, I know you want to be a disabled person for life, but soon you'll get tired of sitting around all day, trust me."
	She's walking away, leaving me no time think up a logical reply. She's making me feel helpless. I won't stand for that. Without any warning, the whole hospital scene including Yvonne flies apart as if I were giving off the explosive force of an atom bomb. The buildings are leveled in an instant. Only I am left on the windy hillside, with my wheelchair still standing on the remnant of green vinyl floor. The ceiling has gone, revealing the sky, but it's not a sky, it's -
	A voice cries out from the heavens: "And don't think you'll be able to take the wheelchair home with you, 'cause you won't!"
	- it's a large expanse of ceiling, with too many fluorescent lights in it. Hundreds of square miles of fluorescent lights, shining their artificial beams down on me. I stare up at them with a sense of wonder. The sky is on my side now. But it's too late to be staring up at the ceiling and it's too early to be blowing up the hospital. There's bound to be a big showdown eventually, me versus the system - it has to happen, and I'm ready for it. But I wish things could just go back to the way they were, like on April the twelfth when I was on my way to physiotherapy through the wide corridors, pushing my wheelchair wheels faster and faster until the momentum was enough to carry me to the corner without any further pushes. Some of the staff members told me that I shouldn't roll through the corridors so fast because I was liable to frighten the older patients who were slow and infirm. Most of the folks staying at the rehabilitation centre were senior citizens; I supposed it wasn't really fair to rush past them in my speeding wheelchair, barely missing them. But in those empty corridors, I saw no need to slow down. Propelling a wheelchair at high velocity was an adrenaline rush, and it was fun, the same way that speeding in any vehicle was fun. I was coming to the corner now, and that meant I would have to stop abruptly and turn ninety degrees. But instead of grabbing both wheels, I just grabbed the right wheel and let the momentum carry me part of the way round the turn. Then I adjusted both wheels so that I was facing the right direction, and shot off again with a vigorous thrust from my arms.
	Moving swiftly through the corridor towards the gym, I remembered how it was in the early days of wheelchairing at Marramlake hospital. I had a different wheelchair then, the old and cumbersome thing with its awkward wooden board out the front and its unsteady wheels which would never be touching the ground all at once. I had to take it slow in the early days, partly because my arms were weak, and partly because I wasn't used to wheelchair handling. I saw other young patients in the corridor outside my room, moving with speed and dexterity in their wheelchairs, and thought to myself, "How do they do it?" But now I had experience and a better set of wheels; I was the coolest invalid in the ward. Not that there was much competition.
	My physiotherapist's name was Carol, and it was she who met me as I rolled into the busy gymnasium area. This was the woman who was responsible for getting me on my feet. I had already gotten to know her a little in the past few days, and I knew that she intended to get my whole body into shape, not just my legs. It seemed a bit pointless, really - after all, I had always been a weakling, and would surely go back to being a weakling after all this physiotherapy was over. But that was the sort of bad attitude I wasn't allowed to express.
	"Good morning Stephen, how are you?", asked Carol.
	"Fine."
	"Are you ready for today's exercises?"
	I nodded.
	"Now, later on today I'll get you some crutches and you'll practise walking on those. But while I'm getting them, ease yourself onto the bench and do three groups of ten push-ups. Can you do that?"
	I raised myself up onto my arms.
	"Wait!", she said. "You haven't put on the brakes! You've got to put the brakes on every time you get out of the wheelchair, to lock the wheels in place. Did you just forget?"
	"Oh. Yes." I pulled on the brake levers. Perhaps I forgot on purpose, because it's such an unnecessary precaution; who was she to be telling me the right way to get out of a wheelchair, anyway? The choice should be mine to make.
	I planted my feet on the floor.
	I took a few steps, but not without using the vinyl-covered bench for support. Thirty push-ups? O.K., I would comply with Carol's bossy request, for now. Perhaps I would choose to only do twenty push-ups. Or ten. Carol was gone now. I'd probably collapse from exhaustion before the first ten, anyway.
	One, two, three -
	Why?
	Four, five -
	Why am I doing it?
	Six, seven, eight -
	It's not fun, it's not practical -
	Ninth, tenth -
	April the tenth. That's the day I was transferred here. They said I would be here for only one or two weeks, and then I'd go back home to my parents. Back to the normal life. That's the plan.
	Eleven, twelve, thirteen -
	Why am I not allowed to ask why?
	Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen - 
	Why should I want to walk?
	Seventeen, eighteen -
	Nineteen. That's how old I am. And in all those nineteen years I've never known what pleasure could be gained from a physical disability.
	Twent -
	No. I can't go that far. Nineteen is the most I can do. I swear I'm going to black out if I go any further. There have to be limits - my head is throbbing as it rests on the padded bench or the pillow, and all I can do is listen to the sounds of the gym, the patients making progress. I think I'll just lie here forever, and forget about the crutches. But above all the hubbub I can hear one conversation which stands out from the others, maybe because the first voice sounds like a loud aristocratic Englishman:
	"What exactly is happening with the Clark case?"
	"Well - he's refusing to walk, doctor. He says he wants to stay in the wheelchair."
	"Stay in the wheelchair? Is he mad? He'll never get well that way."
	"Well that's what he's been told, but he says he doesn't want to get well."
	"Doesn't want to get welllll?"
	Two heads are talking to eachother. One of them is spluttering with astonishment.
	"But hasn't anyone talked to him? Hasn't anyone told him how silly he's being? I mean, for heaven's sake, being crippled from the waste down, it's - it's absurd! He can't even walk! Get him to a psychiatrist."
	"He's already seeing a psychiatrist, doctor, and many other people have tried to reason with him, but he says he likes not being able to walk, and he likes getting around in a wheelchair."
	The two heads are somewhat translucent. Their necks are getting longer and longer, curving around in unnatural ways.
	"Well, this won't do. We can't have patients in here who refuse to co-operate."
	"Oh, I agree. I don't believe he really doesn't want to get well; I think he's just doing it to get attention."
	Their necks are coming out of the television. Two heads, floating around in mid-air, with only thin curvy necks linking them to the T.V. screen.
	"Well I've got no time for people like that", said the doctor. "He's jolly well not staying here. Tell him he's discharged, and I wash my hands of him."
	"All right. And I'll tell him he can't take the wheelchair with him when he goes, because it belongs to us."
	"Yes. Ha ha. Yes, do that. I think he may well change his mind when he hears that."
	The doctor's head nods. What sort of head is that? It doesn't look real - it looks like some sort of exaggerated cartoon head. And the voice sounds wrong too - real doctors don't talk like that. It sounds like a pretend doctor in an old English movie.
	"I've had several patients like him", it said. "You try to do them a favour, you try to help them, and they throw it all back in your face. Most discouraging. Most unpleasant."
	The necks are retracting back into the T.V. now. It's as if the screen is sucking them back in.
	"Now, about Bill -"
	"Oh, yes, old Bill! Good old Bill - how is he?"
	The conversation fades as the two heads press together and squeeze back into the T.V. Now they are just part of the T.V. screen again, and I am alone as usual. The ceiling is above me - it ripples as if wincing with the memory of that single bullet ringing out across the countryside. It will never happen again. I am safe here.
	That thing with the T.V. was weird - images don't usually come out of the screen and float around in the room. I would've thought it was impossible. But then I don't really understand television. Once upon a time I had a basic understanding of how it works and what it does, but nowadays I don't even understand what it's trying to tell me. When I look at my T.V., I see patterns of light and dark, and colour, but can't find any meaning in them. It's something about - about representing three dimensions on a two dimensional surface, and I used to get something from it, but now I can't tell the foreground from the background. The T.V. is not a marker of time - I can't tell one program from the next. And yet still I keep my eyes focussed on it. It's the most interesting thing in the room.
	How many times, during that dark period just before my suicide attempt, had I wished myself to be in a comfy bed just like this one? Indeed, most people in a situation of weariness, stress, or embarrassment would wish they could just curl up in bed and forget about their worries. It makes me wonder why they got out of bed in the first place. People don't learn from their mistakes. But look at me - my sheets are clean - my face is clean - my air is clean - the room is warm, and there is nothing, absolutely nothing on the horizon that I could worry about. I am simply existing, here alone with my thoughts.
	But now my solitude is broken by a man entering the room. I can hear his rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the vinyl. As he approaches me, I hear another sound, a very strange one which starts as a low roar and opens out to become the normal background noise of the hospital ward. I never noticed how silent everything had been, until that noise started up.
	The man had glasses, and he was bald on top. I didn't recognise him. "Hello Stephen!", he said. "My name is Dr. Watties. I'm a psychiatrist. How are you feeling?"
	"Fine", I replied instinctively, despite my obvious physical injuries which went without saying.
	"I'm here to have a little talk with you. Is that O.K.?"
	"Yes."
	The Doctor sat down. He started to talk in his soothing, non-threatening, gentle voice. "Now you got into this physical condition because of a suicide attempt, is that right?"
	"Yes." There was a long pause. I wasn't looking at the doctor - I was staring straight up at the ceiling.
	"How did you attempt to kill yourself?"
	"Jumped off a footbridge."
	There was another long pause.
	"Do you think you could explain to me why you did that?"
	How was I supposed to answer that question? The most accurate answer, I guessed, would be "Why not?", but that wouldn't have satisfied Doctor Watties. Instead I chose to give the same answer as I gave the very first person who asked me that question: "Because I was sick of life."
	A patient across the room let out a whimper of pain. I couldn't see him. Why not? Because my curtains were drawn. How long had they been like that? I wasn't able to recall anyone pulling them closed.
	"Is there any particular aspect of your life that you were sick of?"
	"Well, it was - I don't know, just everything. There was nothing about it that was enjoyable. It was school, mostly."
	"School? You say you didn't like school?"
	"No. It was stressful. The work was hard. I was doing the V.C.E."
	"Ah yes, the V.C.E., I've heard how stressful that can be. But - when you attempted suicide, you were on holidays, weren't you?"
	"Yes."
	"In January?"
	"Yes."
	"So you had just finished year eleven?"
	"No, year twelve."
	"So you had finished the V.C.E. altogether?"
	"Yes."
	"Did you pass?"
	"Yes."
	The doctor might have been confused. I didn't care. My mental health was no cut and dried case - it was a mysterious riddle. I could see he was formulating another question.
	"But if the V.C.E. was a part of your life that you'd finished with - I don't see how it could've been a cause for suicide."
	Well now that wasn't a question. How could I answer him if he didn't ask a question? I just lay there. The doctor paused for a long time. I wondered what the point of having the curtains closed was. They didn't exactly offer any sound protection from the other patients. The doctor and I were speaking so softly, anyway, that the confidentiality of this interview was assured. Maybe he wanted some visual privacy in case I had to cry or something. Well there was no need for that. 
	"Stephen, I'm still somewhat puzzled about the reasoning behind what you did. Could you tell me more about why you wanted to take your own life?"
	I could see the doctor wanted to cut to the chase. "Well", I said, "it was kind like - I knew my life was about to become more stressful - because I had just been accepted into a tertiary course - a TAFE course - in Information Technology - and I knew it would continue to be stressful - and I knew that it wouldn't be worth it. So I decided - to cut it short before it - before it started."
	"I see. So it was really the expectation of the future that led you to commit suicide."
	I nodded.
	"And you didn't want to do the course?"
	I shook my head.
	"But if you didn't want to do the course, then why did you apply for it?"
	"I didn't apply for it in first preference. What I really wanted to do was Graphic Design at university. Information Technology was my last preference."
	"Aah. So none of the universities accepted you then."
	"No. Nor did the TAFE design courses." I thought of adding that I probably would have committed suicide anyway no matter who had accepted me, but I didn't want the doctor to think I'd been leading him astray again. The curtains heaved as if someone outside was grabbing them. I ignored it and continued to stare up at the ceiling.
	Doctor Watties seemed to be retreating from me. "Hmm", he said. "I can understand how the rejection from those courses would make you feel sad. I know I would be very disappointed if I were in that situation. Mrs Clark, were you aware that Stephen was feeling so sad at that time?"
	"Well I knew he was disappointed about not getting into university. But I didn't know the full extent of his feelings."
	That was Mum speaking. Where had she come from? She wasn't there a second ago. I turned my head around to where she had suddenly appeared. No, - no, I guess she was there all along.
	"Were you ever afraid that he might have been suicidal?"
	"Well he's always been - rather unhappy. I think both Bernie and I considered that he might have been suicidal. Wouldn't you say, Bernie?"
	"Yes", replied Dad. So now he was here too. But his voice came from further away from the curtain, it seemed. The space was getting bigger. But what on earth was happening to the curtains? Mum continued her speech.
	"But we didn't think he'd really go through with it. I thought his Christian religious morals would have prevented him from doing it."
	Religion. I used to believe in it, but not anymore. She'd find out sooner or later. I was still in bed, but my surroundings had changed. This was the room down the corridor - the private interview room, where we could have an intensive psychiatric session without the need to keep our voices down.
	"Religious beliefs", said the doctor, "are often a deterrent when someone is contemplating suicide. But they are by no means foolproof. I mean there are a great many believers who have committed suicide, though possibly not as many as non-believers."
	He paused. There seemed to be nothing left to say on that topic, so he switched to another one. "But Stephen, did you think of telling your parents about your suicidal feelings?"
	"No."
	"Why not?"
	"Because - they would've stopped me from doing it."
	"But they would have also done everything in their power to help you and stop you from feeling so bad. Wouldn't that have been better than what happened here?"
	I thought this through, but no matter how I looked at it, I couldn't possibly agree with what he said. I was about to tell him so, when he spoke again.
	"You see, attempting suicide was a big risk. You could have ended up dying, and that wouldn't have solved anything. How do you think your parents would have felt if you had died?"
	I shifted my legs uncomfortably. "They would have felt pretty bad", I answered. My parents were right there - why couldn't he ask them?
	"How bad do you think they would have felt?", he asked.
	"They would've felt very, very bad, pretty devastated. But I wouldn't have cared, because I'd be dead." I spoke these last words very slowly and deliberately, trying to be firm.
	"Who do you think would have felt worse? Your mother or your father?"
	"I don't know. My mother, I guess." My answer was based entirely on gender bias.
	"How do you think she would have reacted? Would she have cried?"
	"Yes."
	"How long would she have cried for?"
	"I don't know. A few days. No, a few hours, maybe." I was weakening. My voice became wavery.
	"Do you think she would get over it after a few hours?"
	"No, she wouldn't get over it, she'd continue crying later, and she'd cry off and on, occasionally, for a long time."
	"Do you think she would recover, from her grief about your death?"
	"Well, she - she would - go on with her life and slowly put the whole - thing behind her and cope with it. I guess."
	"Hmmm." A tear slowly ran down my cheek. Get off my cheek, I thought, you are not welcome here. The doctor continued: "What about your father? Would he have been upset?"
	"Yes."
	"Would he have cried too?"
	My father. He was sitting right there. I had never even seen him cry, and couldn't imagine it. He was always solid as a rock, usually fair and kind but never showing weakness. Deep down inside I knew he must be only human, though -
	"Yes."
	"Would he have cried for as long as your Mum?"
	"No, not quite as long", I said unsteadily. I was going down. The doctor was thwarting my efforts to stay together - his questions were beating me into a soft pulp. And he kept going.
	"How long do you think he would have cried for?"
	"He - he might have - " I stopped mid-sentence and tried to regain my composure, but there it was - the image of my father crying, and then not crying, and then giving support to Mum even though he was just as devastated as she was. I didn't want the tension to crumple up my face, but it did -
	Are you going to let him win, Stephen? Haven't you always said that no-one can make you do anything you don't want to do? This doctor, this hospital - they're trying to make you cry and take away your wheelchair. They're pushing you and pulling you. Can't you stop it? With all your power, can't you stop it? I think you can. I know you can.
	The pressure in the room was almost tangible. It was concentrated and focussed on me. With the doctors' relentless pushing, it was only a matter of time before a showdown occurred. And that mighty clash of powers was due to happen today, April the nineteenth. My nerve endings were tingling with fear and excitement. "Today", I thought, "is the most important day of my life."
	One of my main opponents, Doctor Cantaro, seemed strangely relaxed as he stood by the bed and wrote something on his clipboard. Evidently he was unaware of the impending climax. My mother was there too, looking vaguely worried.
	"You know", said Doctor Cantaro, "We don't like to do this, sending a patient home before he's fully recovered. But you're kind of forcing our hand. Like I said, all we want to do is help you."
	"I'm sure I'll be O.K.", I murmured softly, staring straight at the wall. "I mean, I've got the wheelchair, right?"
	"Stephen, we've already discussed this, you won't be able to keep the wheelchair. Do you understand?"
	I kept staring at the wall, and with half a smile I said, "But without the wheelchair, how will I get from here to the car?"
	"You'll be able to keep the wheelchair until you get to the car. But after that, you'll climb into the passenger seat and I will take the wheelchair back into the building. Do you understand?"
	"I hear you."
	"Good."
	"But I don't agree with you." I looked into the Doctor's eyes. Mum shifted her feet uncomfortably.
	"Well", said Cantaro, "That doesn't make any difference, because it's going to happen just as I explained. And we may as well go straight away. Mrs Clark, would you like to take the bag?"
	Mum picked up the large paper bag containing my belongings, and we set off. Doctor Cantaro led the way, with me pushing my wheelchair behind him, and then Mum. As we were passing the front desk, the doctor laid his clipboard down and asked a nurse if she could mind it for him. Then he spied a blue-uniformed orderly a short distance away, and called out "Excuse me! Brian! Are you busy?"
	"Maybe", said Brian. "Why?"
	Cantaro motioned Mum and I to wait a second, and he went over to have a private conversation with Brian. At the same time, Mum leaned down to speak in my ear.
	"I think he's getting an extra orderly to help him", she said. "I hope you realise by now that you're not going to be able to keep the wheelchair. If you try to struggle now, you'll just look like a fool - better to let it go with some dignity. What do you say, are you going to be -"
	But she never finished her question, because at that moment Cantaro came back and addressed Mum. "Mrs Clark, will you lead the way?"
	Mum looked at me and then started walking down the corridor. We followed her towards the exit - this time there was no need for me to turn the wheels, as my chair was being pushed by Brian the orderly. Once outside, we started making our way down the gentle slope towards the carpark. It was a cloudy autumn day. The grounds of the rehabilitation centre were very pleasant looking; it had been built in a riverside location, almost completely surrounded by parkland. Beyond the carpark was a natural field with the occasional gumtree. The outer limits of the rehabilitation centre were very similar to the outside nature-reserve - it was hard to believe that the thriving city centre lay just six kilometres away. I shivered a little, thinking about the conflict which was about to happen, almost wishing there was another way to go. But I had to go through with it now, if I wanted to retain any measure of self-respect. We arrived at the car and Mum put down the bag while she fumbled for her car keys.
	Cantaro stood by and said "Y'know, Stephen, getting into the house when you get home could be a bit of a problem. Have you figured that one out?"
	It was a stupid question, and I didn't answer it. I had enough problems trying to work out when would be the right moment to make my move. Mum opened the car door. Without a word, Brian wheeled me up alongside the door and applied the brakes.
	"O.K. Stephen", said Mum. "In you get."
	"Wait a minute", I said, taking the brakes off. "Before I get in, I want you to promise that you'll load the wheelchair into the back, after I get in."
	"We're not going to make that promise, Stephen", said Cantaro. He looked to Mum for support.
	"Come on, Stephen, we've been through this already", said Mum wearily.
	"Do you want us to help you get into the car?", asked Cantaro.
	I looked at the authority figures slowly advancing on my left. From their position they couldn't see my right hand. I held it firmly beside the seat, ready for action. Unconsciously I formed my left hand into a fist. "Are you going to force me out of the chair?"
	"If we have to, yes."
	"If you lay one finger on me -" I brought my right hand out of hiding and raised my voice to a psychopathic yell - "I'LL KILL YOU!"
	Mum gasped and the two men jumped back with their hands in the air.
	Yes. That's how it was. When they saw the gun in my hand, all their calm, assured authority was gone in an instant and I was the one giving orders. It was so unexpected - suddenly their normal day at work had turned into a life-threatening ordeal.
	In my rush of adrenaline I was shaking the gun unsteadily and my eyes had become unfocussed. "Stephen - Stephen - " said Cantaro.
	"Where did he get the gun from? Where did he get a gun?", asked Brian wildly.
	"Never mind how I got it! You just stay back!"
	"Stephen - just calm down -"
	I drew back a little and stopped shaking the gun. "I am calm." I wasn't really, but I said it in a calm voice. The gun remained pointed at arm's length. With my other hand I pulled the left wheel and turned the chair around to face them full on. I didn't look at my mother, who was standing off to the left; the gun wasn't pointed at her.
	Cantaro spoke again. "Now just put the gun down - "
	"No!"
	"Stephen, it doesn't have to be like this -"
	"Oh yes it does!" There was a pause. I couldn't think of anything else to say.
	"Stephen, why are you doing this?"
	"Because... because you've got to promise that you'll put the wheelchair in the back."
	"But it's just a wheelchair. It's not worth killing people over."
	"Oh, well if it's 'just' a wheelchair, then you should have no problem giving it to me, right?'
	"O.K., but if I promise to give you the wheelchair, will you promise to give me the gun?"
	I hesitated. Oh, he thinks he's so clever, being the hostage negotiator and staying calm under pressure. Well not for long. "No!", I said. "No, I'm not going to make that promise." I remembered the doctor saying the same words a few minutes ago, and I wished I'd said them as calmly as he had.
	"All right. O.K. I promise to put the wheelchair in the car when you're finished with it. Now will you put the gun down now, please?"
	"Fine." I reached down the back of my spine with my right hand. When I pulled it back out, the hand was empty.
	Once again the men were surprised.
	"Where did he put it?"
	"I didn't hear it fall."
	"He must have some kind of holster on his back."
	Brian nipped around the side, still keeping his distance. "I can't see it", he said.
	"Stephen, where is it?", demanded Cantaro.
	"If you want the gun", I said, holding up my empty hands, "then come and take it."
	Brian checked behind my back and behind the wheelchair. I knew what he would find; that there was no niche, nor pocket, nor hiding-place where the gun could have been concealed. Cantaro was searching as well. "O.K.", he said at last. "You're playing a game with us. We give up. You win. Where did you put the gun?"
	I decided it was time to drop my second bombshell of the day. "You want to know where the gun is? I'll show you." I held my hand out and curled the fingers 'round slowly. The strained muscles began to change shape -
	The skin darkened and became smooth and shiny -
	And when the transformation was complete, the two men were once again being menaced by a gun.
	I watched their faces with satisfaction as the eyes got wider, the jaws dropped open and they sucked in air like a pair of asthmatics. Brian rubbed his eyes quickly and then looked at me sideways as if hoping the scene would resolve itself into something normal and rational. A smirk spread out across my face. The look on Cantaro's mug was even more satisfying; for the first time he was showing a look of real fear in his eyes, where annoyance had been a moment before.
	That's right, I thought. Be afraid. Earlier, you thought I was just a harmless nutcase. Then you thought I was a dangerous nutcase with a gun. But now you know that your enemy is a supernatural being with incredible powers, you're wishing you had been nicer to me, aren't you?
	Cantaro was spinning out. "No, no, no, this can't be happening. This isn't happening. It's just a dream." He took a few faltering steps back towards the building, and then returned.
	"Yeah that's right, it's all a big dream", said Brian, and he slapped himself on the face. "It's not a dream."
	Cantaro pinched himself on the arm. He looked around to see if there were any other witnesses in the car park or in the distance, but the only other human being in sight was Mum. I had forgotten about her for a moment - she hadn't said a word since the gun's first appearance. Now she was standing frozen beside the car with her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with shock.
	"Stephen", breathed the doctor. "What - how - what are you? You're not a man! You're a - a -" But he could not bring himself to complete the sentence, because he had been so conditioned by all his years of scientific study.
	I waved the gun in lazy circles. "Oh, but I am a man, doctor! I'm the most powerful man on earth - for I cannot be disarmed!"
	There was silence for five seconds, in which Cantaro looked back and forth between Mum and me desperately. 'No. No. There must be a rational explanation for this."
	"Rational?", grunted Brian. "His hand just morphed into a gun. We both saw it."
	"Holograms. That's how he's doing it."
	"Holograms?", repeated Brian doubtfully.
	"Well - maybe not holograms, but something. Human flesh can't change into metal."
	They were talking about me rather than to me - it was one of those medical habits which I'd grown used to. Brian surprised me by showing a clearer head than his over-educated colleague.
	"Well obviously it's not a real gun. It's just a part of his hand that's changed it's appearance to look like a real gun."
	Cantaro latched onto the idea. "Yes! An organic mock-up of a gun. A menacing facade."
	"There's no way he could shoot bullets with that."
	"No. Of course not." Cantaro seemed somewhat relieved, realising that the gun was merely an object of curiosity rather than fear. "Did you hear that Stephen? You can stop pointing that thing at us - we know it's not a real gun."
	"Oh, so you think it's not a real gun?", I said with suppressed excitement. This was the moment I'd waited for for so long. "Then watch this!!"
	I aimed carefully and pulled the trigger. The unexpected loudness of the gunshot rang out, soon to his everyone's ears with a jolt. Doctor Cantaro's eyes were on the bullet as it emerged from the chamber and started on its journey.
	Time has come to a halt.

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	

	It was after lights-out in the Rehab centre, and my bed was in darkness. Night-time was my favourite time, because the darkness gave me the cover I needed to experiment with my new powers in secret. They were fully developed - I was able to change my hand into a gun and back in less than one second. All it took was the power of thought. With my hand in gun-mode, I could make it wide, I could make it different colours, I could make it highly decorative with embossed floral designs and impractical curves and twists in the barrel. But it was always a gun, and it always had a bullet nestling inside somewhere, burning with lethal potency. I had never fired the gun - that would be a bad move, here in a hospital ward - but just the feeling of the bullet was enough to convince me that it was a weapon just as deadly as one you'd buy in a gun shop.
	The question is, I thought, what am I going to do with this power? How can I use it to help myself or anyone else? Should I continue to keep it a secret?
	I didn't know anything about guns. I had never had an interest in them. Not that I hated them - I could remember a time when I was about five when I had said something to Mum: "If you've got a gun, you can do anything. You can point it at people and they'll give you whatever you want." Mum had gone into an explanation about how guns can't bring you happiness. She was right, of course - you can't go around poking guns in people's faces whenever you want, and expect to live a long and happy life. But this new power of mine was different from a regular gun - surely there was some way I could use it to get what I wanted?
	What do you want, Stephen?
	I looked at my wheelchair glinting in the darkness. I want things to stay as they are. I want people waiting on me hand and foot. I want an easy lifestyle. I want to get around in a wheelchair. I want people visiting me. I want attention. I want special treatment.
	Trickles of black metal oozed backward along the gun barrel, as if they were being pushed back by extreme acceleration. The end of the barrel became thin and sharp, like a hypodermic needle.
	I want to stay disabled. I want to be wheelchair man.
	And what don't you want, Stephen?
	I thought about the life I had left behind, the life that had driven me towards suicide. I don't want to be normal. I don't want to join the rat-race. I don't want to go back to studies. I don't want to work. I don't want to give up the wheelchair. I don't want to take care of myself. I don't want to walk. I really don't want to walk. I really, really don't want to walk.
	But if you refuse to walk, won't people get upset?
	I don't care how upset they get. They can't force me to move my legs.
	But what if they try to take your wheelchair away?
	They can't do that! I have the power! If they try anything like that, they'll soon find out how powerful I am, 'cause I'll prove it to them!
	But would that sort of lifestyle really bring you happiness? Isn't that just the sort of thing your mother warned you about?
	Maybe. But no-one's tried anything like this before. It's worth a try. What's the worst that can happen? With these powers, what can they really do to me?
	Maybe you'll get sick of being disabled. Most people do. How long are you going to stay like this?
	What does it matter? My options are still open. If I get sick of it, I can always change my mind. All I want to do is delay my recovery until a time when I'm good and ready; perhaps I'll decide to stay like this my whole life.
	The other patients in the ward were sound asleep, but I was plotting and planning and considering every possibility. I fantasized about every potential situation that I might get into. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like a viable plan. The other patients were asleep, but I was changing my gun into ever more elaborate shapes and refining the details of my daring, exciting experiment. Sleep for me was still many hours away.


Chapter 3

	Bob was looking down the corridor. He didn't realise how much danger he was in. He didn't see what was on the end of my arm. He didn't see that I was pointing at him with a -
	cold -
	rigid -
	trembling -
	hand.
	Just a hand.
	I stared at it in disbelief. The trembling spread down my arm and when Bob turned back to face me he only saw the arm lowering and retreating as if in embarrassment.
	"Stephen", he said brusquely, "How are you feeling?"
	"Fine", I said, though it was a total lie. I was in shock.
	"There's someone who's come to see you. His name is Doctor Quackstein. I hope you'll make him feel welcome."
	Someone walked into my cell. I didn't see who it was; I had laid my head on the mattress and was staring up at the ceiling. Feelings of confusion pervaded me; all I could think about was my gun and why it had failed to appear at the crucial moment.
	"Hello Stephen", said a face on my peripheral vision. "Are you feeling calmed down a bit now? Not so agitated as before?"
	"Yes", said another voice which seemed to come from me. What had happened to the gun? Had I done something wrong? Usually it was just a matter of willing my hand to change, transforming the flesh with the power of the mind. But this time the hand had stayed a hand.
	The doctor was speaking. "I wonder if you can tell me exactly what happened this morning?"
	I yanked myself back to reality and tried to think straight. "They tried to separate me from the wheelchair", I said. "They dragged me away from it, and I tried to hold on."
	"Hmmm. Yes. But what happened before that?"
	"I - I was lying in bed. And they were telling me to get up."
	"I see. And you didn't want to get up?"
	"No", I said, still staring up at the ceiling. My voice sounded dead and hollow. All the crying had had a strange deepening effect on it.
	"Why not?"
	"Because I didn't see the point."
	"Ah."
	"And I didn't see why I should do what the nurses say."
	"So have you been feeling this way a lot lately, that you can't see the point of simple, everyday things like getting up in the morning? Showering? Shaving? Things that most people do automatically?"
	"That's right", said Bob, answering for me. "I don't think he showers or changes his sheets either. As soon as I walked into the room, I could smell the B.O."
	"Is this true?", asked the doctor.
	"I shower enough", I replied.
	"How often?"
	"Once a week."
	"Once a week? Well I don't think that's enough. Most people shower every day."
	"I don't care what other people do. I just do what's best for me."
	Bob spoke again. "You're not the only one on this ward, Stephen. There are twenty-three other people in here. If we're going to live together in peace, then you have to live by the rules and conventions like the rest of them. When you refuse to shower, or when you try something like you did this morning, then you inconvenience the whole ward."
	"Well look - I didn't ask to be brought here."
	"That's true, Stephen," said the doctor, "but your discharge date has already been set, and until that date you would do well to co-operate with us, because otherwise you'll find us less than willing to co-operate with you."
	"There's nothing you can do to me", I said slowly and darkly.
	"That wheelchair belongs to us, right?", inquired Bob.
	"Yes", I replied.
	"Hmmm. Good. Just checking."
	"All right Stephen", said the doctor, almost cutting off the end of Bob's last sentence. "You just think about what I've said about co-operation, and we'll be back in a minute with your clothes. Bob, can I -"
	The doctor made some sort of signal to Bob that I didn't see, and the two men filed out the door. I turned my head just in time to see Bob closing my cell without locking it. As soon as they were out of sight, my body became rigid with fear. Those two men - neither of them knew about my secret powers. What were they plotting against me?
	I tried the gun again. I tried it repeatedly, and then started bashing my hand against the cold floor, trying to loosen it up. In the end I was punishing my hand for being so unco-operative, and tears were welling in my eyes. I was powerless. The magic gun was gone, now, perhaps for good. If the authorities tried to take the wheelchair away from me now, I would not be able to stop them. No-one in this hospital knew about my power. If they had tried to take the wheelchair away before this day, it would have been fine. It would have been exciting. I would have shown them my power, and they would have looked upon me with fear and reverence. But right now, the authorities were in a position where they might win the battle; perhaps they didn't even know it yet. Why did it have to happen now? Why did I have to lose my powers just when they finally succeeded in wrenching the wheelchair out of my grasp? One might almost think there was a connection between the two events - that the wheelchair itself had given me the powers. But that didn't really make sense. After all, I had changed wheelchairs several times since I broke my feet - it hadn't always been the same wheelchair.
	I found myself wanting to speak to Doctor Cantaro - he was the only one who could sort this out. He would never let them take away my wheelchair if he was here. But Doctor Cantaro wasn't here. He had never visited me in this mad house. Where was he? And why had he abandoned me?
	"Stephen, are you still here? Sorry for abandoning you like that. "
	I raised myself up on one elbow and looked at the man in the doorway. He was sitting on an office chair and the light streamed out from behind him. Before I knew what was happening, that chair was rolling towards me on its castors. It was coming straight for my head. I wanted to move aside or at least shut my eyes, but I couldn't. The castors hit my head and passed right through, re-arranging my brain again. I had that helpless feeling of being mentally assaulted but enjoying the lack of defense on a deeper level. When the chair came out of my head I was facing the other direction, watching the white-coated man rolling away from me for half a second before coming to rest at his desk-side position. We were in an office. The wheelchair had raised me up, bringing me to eye level with the Doctor Cantaro.
	"Would you like a cup of coffee?", he asked. I noticed he had brought his own cup of coffee in with him, half empty.
	"No thanks", I replied.
	"Biscuit?", he said, holding out a jar of them. I looked at them for a moment, surprised, and then took one. He put the biscuit jar back on his desk, leaving the lid off it. "So", he said. "I heard you've been causing a bit of trouble at home."
	"That's right", I said in between nibbles.
	"I heard you actually pulled a gun on your mother. Is that right?"
	I nodded at his desk-lamp nervously, wondering if he was trying to lay another guilt-trip on me.
	"Does that make you ashamed?", he asked. "Do you wish you hadn't done it?"
	"No; I had to do it, to get my wheelchair back."
	"Hmmm." The Doctor took a sip of his coffee and tilted his eyes toward the ceiling. He seemed to be deep in thought. There was a piece of literature on his desk entitled "Rehabilitation Centre Annual Report." On the front cover was a photo of a nurse and a bedridden patient, smiling at eachother. I wished I could just slip into that saccharine picture and avoid the sermon.
	"So you'll go to any lengths to keep the wheelchair, then?", he said finally. "It's really that important to you?"
	"Yes."
	There was another pause, and I decided to break the silence for once. "Why are you asking me all these questions? You're not a psychiatrist."
	Cantaro seemed pleased that I'd asked him a question. "Aah, that's true, I'm not a psychiatrist, and it's been many years since I did a term in psychiatry way back when I was becoming a doctor. Now I'm trying to recall some of that knowledge, because I need it in order to figure out what's going on in your head."
	"So why don't you send me to a psychiatrist?", I asked, following the obvious line of reasoning.
	"I will," he replied, "but first I want to sort things out between us. I just want us to have a talk, like two friends would talk. So don't think of me as a doctor. I mean, doctors are often seen as authority figures, in a way, but I don't want this to develop into a confrontational gun-wielding situation like it did yesterday. So I thought maybe we could negotiate without making any threats, or direct orders, and maybe we can come to an agreement about what we're going to do."
	I shrugged and popped the last piece of biscuit into my mouth. "O.K."
	The Doctor's "Annual Report" was behaving very oddly. It was growing in size and falling off the desk. Then it began to twist upwards, and I heard a voice coming out of it with a faint Egyptian accent:
	"Hey, Stephen! What are you doing in bed?"
	The annual report was coming towards me.
	"Can you tell me about what happened this morning?" Doctor Cantaro was being obscured by the paper. I couldn't see him anymore.
	"Come on, loafer! You should be up and walking." It was that female voice again. The photo swept forward and surrounded me. There was a moment of dizziness as the new reality twisted around to match my viewpoint. I was back in bed, but the scene was far from saccharine. The nurse in the picture turned out to be René, the Egyptian woman who was always nagging me to get out of bed.
	"What's wrong with staying in bed?", I asked her.
	"You need to practise walking", she answered. "That's what rehabilitation is all about."
	"I get enough exercise in physiotherapy. And anyway, where am I gonna walk to? You want me to just go walking around aimlessly in the corridors?"
	Nurse René folded her arms. "All I'm saying is, you spend far too much time in bed. It doesn't matter where you walk to, just as long as you get out of bed."
	I pulled the bedclothes further up over myself. "Leave me alone", I said. "I just want to rest now. I'll go for a walk later."
	"Later? Well you just make sure that you do. I've got my eye on you." René wagged her finger at me and walked away. I slid down deeper into the blankets, turned on my side, and closed my eyes. René was talking through her hat. The best thing about hospital was being allowed to stay in bed - I had to make the best of it. This era was drawing to a close. Soon I would be going home to my parents' house, and they certainly wouldn't be bringing food to the bed, let alone a bed pan. I would be expected to stand on my own two feet.
	The bed is warm - I wish I never had to leave -
	My eyes opened and I was in my own bedroom. The overhead lights were not fluorescent - there was one solitary light-globe in the middle of the ceiling, and it was turned off. Only muffled light came through the window - the curtains were drawn, as usual. The wallpaper was vaguely off-white and rough textured. There were no posters on the walls, apart from one large picture of a stack of money which Melissa had given me years ago; I felt obliged to keep it there because it was a gift, but it was so low down on the wall that the bed obscured half of it. When I was young I'd had a collection of posters and other objects stuck around the room, but just recently I'd developed a craving for bare, undecorated walls. I thought of it as an extension of my personality - it was empty and featureless. That wasn't quite true about my personality, but there was nothing about myself that I wanted to express via my bedroom walls. Most of all I didn't want people to form judgments about me when they saw my bedroom - blank walls were best because they gave nothing away.
	I turned my head to the side and looked at the empty space there.
	My wheelchair was gone.
	I raised my head and scanned the room, my stomach getting tenser with each passing second. The wheelchair was not within reach, nor within sight. I had left it by the bed while I slept, ready to roll me out of this place in the morning. But now it was gone, and without the wheelchair I was helpless.
	They took it in the night!
	I sat up and took my wasted legs out from under the covers. My brow darkened as I started to form suspicions about who had taken the wheelchair. Doctor Cantaro? No - he wasn't so desperate to reclaim hospital property that he'd break into someone's house. Dad? No - he had been at work all night, and anyway I trusted him too much. The only one left was Mum; I didn't trust her as far as I could carry her. She hadn't been herself last night. I remembered the strange quietness, the bleak chill in her eyes, and now it seemed obvious that she was plotting something against me. But that wasn't conclusive proof -
	My gun hand was tingling. Even though it was in fleshy-form, it felt heavy as if the metal was inside, primed and ready to shoot. I waved the hand in an arc, thinking it wouldn't be long before this weapon would be coming out, perhaps shooting off a round and mowing down anyone who came between me and my wheelchair. But that was for later. Right now I had to devise a way to get out of this room without walking.
	I dragged myself to the tail end of the bed which was closest to the door. Fortunately, my wheelchair travel had necessitated that a path be cleared through the mess from my bed to the door, and the door itself was ajar, which was a bonus. I lowered my hands to the carpet and slowly inched my way forward, dragging the lower half of my crippled body off the bed. The carpet was neither thick nor soft. As I struggled onward, it scraped my elbows and made me wince with pain. Meanwhile the friction was threatening to drag my underwear off. I twisted my body around to reach the brown paper sack still full of my belongings, and pulled out a clean pair of tracksuit pants. There was no way I could go out into the house in this state of undress - I would have gotten dressed in bed if I'd been thinking more clearly.
	Covering my lower half with the trousers without any leg muscle exertion was no easy task, but at least it gave me the opportunity to get off my stomach and face the right way up. I half considered the possibility of dragging myself the rest of the way reversed, on my buttocks, but that would have meant dragging my bare heels along the carpet, and my feet were painful enough already. Eventually I rolled onto my stomach, slithered over to the door, and opened it. The dark, empty hallway was there, just as it had always been throughout my childhood. I squinted at it and tried to estimate how much dragging it would take to get into the vinyl floored kitchen. The light in there was off. Mum was probably not in the kitchen - I couldn't hear her moving around.
	Where was she, then? In the bedroom? She was not one to be sleeping in on a Saturday morning; not later than me, anyway. Dad would be in there, sleeping off his night-shift. I wanted to avoid waking him up, if possible. The kitchen was the hub of the household, and Mum would be sure to walk into it sooner or later, no matter where she was. I wanted to be ready for her, ready to put the hard questioning on her. I continued dragging my carcass down the hall in fits and bursts, with my mouth open and my eyes wild with self-inflicted pain. With every fit and every burst of movement, I became more determined to get my wheelchair back and more certain that this would all be worth it.
	"And you say you dragged yourself like this all the way to the kitchen?", asked Doctor Cantaro.
	"Yes", I replied, gripping the hand-rails of my wheelchair for security.
	"Why didn't you just walk into the kitchen? I mean, it would have been difficult, but you've made a bit of progress with walking since you came here."
	"No. I can't walk."
	"You could have at least tried."
	"No. Not anymore. I don't want to walk."
	The doctor's chair was sprouting arm-rests and retreating even further from me; I had to lean forward to speak to him. Meanwhile his desk started to float up into the air, but one corner of it remained anchored to the ground. The objects on the desk slid off, and continued their slide across the floor like racing snails. I noticed that the objects were growing and spreading out, although later I wouldn't remember which exercise machine had been a phone, or which patient had been a desk-calendar. It all happened too fast.
	"So", said the doctor, "you suffered the indignity of crawling across the floor on your belly, just because you were against the idea of walking, in principle?"
	I looked around at the doctors office, which was turning into something messy and complicated on a much larger scale. Splashes of bright colour crawled out of the walls and split themselves up into milder hues. I could no longer be sure how far away the walls were, but I got the feeling that I was in a space so expansive, the boundaries were no longer a significant concern. The doctor was still retreating across the room as his hair became overtaken by grey, and his clothes became shabbier. For some reason I felt it was very important that I answered his question, but it was difficult because the gulf between us was widening, as was the age difference.
	"That's right", I called.
	The old man clenched his mouth over to one side of his face thoughtfully. He didn't seem at all angry, or weary - I just hoped the friendly facade wasn't hiding some sort of trick up his sleeve that would bring my downfall. But just then, any importance the old man had held was forgotten as Carol approached me across the busy gymnasium.
	"Stephen", said the physiotherapist, "I've adjusted the height of these crutches to fit your height, so they should suit you better now. Yes?"
	I nodded. But wait a minute, I thought. Carol doesn't know about my plan to not walk. How could she know? I only thought up the plan last night. So how am I going to tell her?
	Carol continued, "Up until now you've been walking with the three-point gait, which puts the crutches in sync with eachother. The next step is to learn the four-point gait, which is faster, and I'm going to teach it to you today."
	I was still looking at the old man. I couldn't look Carol in the eye. Any moment now it would begin. The rebellion. What will she do? Will she be angry with me? Will she be disgusted? Will she throw me into shame and humiliation? What will happen?
	So take these crutches", she said, "and come to a standing position like I taught you last time."
	The moment had come. "No", I said.
	"Why not?", asked Carol, "What's wrong?"
	Now you've done it, fool! There's no going back now! It's easy to say 'no', but you're going to have to explain yourself!
	Ignoring my little voice's doubt, I forced the words, "I don't want to walk." Even though everything was going to plan, I could feel the cogs and wheels screeching against eachother in my head, being forced to turn in a direction for which they hadn't been designed.
	"Stephen, is this a joke?"
	The cogs screamed louder. Maybe it was a joke - it certainly was absurd. Much of my effort had to be put into preventing my face from breaking into a smile. I didn't want this to be any more embarrassing than it had to be.
	"No."
	Carol was squatting down to look at me closely. She was in my peripheral vision; my eyes were staring ahead now, deadly serious.
	"What's wrong? Why don't you want to walk?"
	"Because - because - " I thought the talking would be easier from here on in, but it wasn't. Words had to be dredged out from the depths of my memory like drowned corpses. "It just - seems like - such a - waste of time! What's the - point of it all?"
	Carol was silent for a while. I wondered what she was making of my strange behaviour; it certainly wasn't coming out how I planned. Finally she said, "Stephen, I know it's hard, and I know it must seem pretty pointless to you now, but - it'll get easier every day, and once we get you walking again, you'll see that this was all worthwhile. You'll be happier once you're out of here, trust me."
	This is stupid, I thought. We're both talking in clichés, and neither of us is really understanding eachother. How am I gonna cut through this crap?
	I shook my head "No! - I don't want to walk! Walking is bad! I - I want to stay like this!"
	"Stephen, what's wrong, really? Tell me."
	"I told you."
	Carol was confused. She was trying to understand, but I could see from her expression that she wasn't too keen on dealing with a mental case. She didn't want a long explanation, she wanted a quick solution, and there wasn't one. I decided to speak up again, before she had the chance to work out what her next question would be.
	"Carol - your job is to teach me to walk again, right? And - and to get me into a satisfactory state that I'm satisfied with? But your job isn't to persuade me to walk again, that would be more the job of a psychiatrist or something. So really I think your job here is done, because I'm satisfied with the state that I'm in. So I think we should end the rehabilitation here."
	That last sentence was in such a low voice, she would've had to have been a lip reader to understand it. She certainly didn't look very understanding.
	"Excuse me", she said, "I have to - talk with someone."
	Many people claim to have seen a mysterious figure roaming the back streets late at night in a wheelchair. They all know the legend of Wheelchair Man, the maverick crime-fighter who lives by his own rules and always has a gun on his side. But no-one really knows who he is. It's only when criminals come face to face with his deadly glint of polished gun-metal that they realise he is more than just a man - he is a supernatural being, unfettered by physical laws. They gasp with astonishment as the impossible Wheelchair Man thwarts their evil plans.
	Whenever mankind is threatened by evil, whenever trouble is at hand, Wheelchair Man will be there with his guns of justice, slaying all wrongdoers. The city will ring with the echoes of freedom and justice, sent forth from his mighty weapons. Run, base villains, run, but cannot outrun his wheels. Hide, but you cannot escape him. The unearthly Wheelchair Man will follow you. Unless you go into some place where there's no wheelchair ramp, in which case -
	"Stephen, are you listening?"
	Oh. It's Doctor Cantaro. He's still there. We must have been talking for a long time.
	"Yes", I said.
	The Doctor continued. "I can do a deal with you, Stephen. We can make an arrangement where everyone is happy and no one has to get shot."
	"Yes, well, as long as I can keep the wheelchair, it's O.K. with me."
	"Good. Now here's the deal - you keep your powers a secret, and I will make sure that no-one tries to steal your wheelchair while you're in the new place. No one will try to take it away from you."
	"How are you going to arrange that?", I asked, wondering if it was a trick.
	"Never mind how I'm going to do it - there are ways. If I need to arrange it I will."
	"But you'd have to be influencing people at a different hospital, a hospital that you don't work at!"
	The Doctor shook his head. "Don't you worry yourself about that. All that matters is that you'll get to keep the wheelchair, and if anyone tries to take it away from you, then you can show your gun to the world and start shooting people. But it's not going to happen. So can I have your word that you promise to keep your powers a secret?"
	"I don't know why you want me to keep them a secret", I said. "Why can't I just expose them?"
	"Well, think about it. If the authorities see that you've got this incredible source of power, then they'll be scared of you. They'll regard you as dangerous. I mean, you may think you can handle this much power, and that you'll only use it for - well, you may think you deserve this much power, but - the authorities won't assume that. They'll want to analyse it - they'll want to control it, they'll want to control you - and from what I've seen in the past twenty-four hours, I think it's more than likely that you're going to get angry and start hurting people. I've seen how much power you have, with that little demonstration you gave before - it's frightening. The most frightening thing of all is your attitude. You seem to want to use the gun on every man or woman who gets in your way. But sorry, I'm not trying to criticize you, I'm just saying that if we follow my plan - and keep it a secret, then no-one gets hurt, everything stays - reasonably pleasant, and you get to keep the wheelchair. Do you understand?"
	I nodded. The Doctor had spoken some weighty truths in his oratory, but the words themselves did not have so much of an effect on me as what was happening to him physically. He had risen up very slowly from his chair and was now floating above me like a hot-air balloon with his arms stretched out to each side. A warm yellow glow had begun to emanate from somewhere behind his head. It had grown brighter and brighter until his upper body was nothing more than a silhouette. I was staring upward in awe of that dazzling, brilliant light, unable to take my eyes off it. Who was this man?, I wondered. He was not an enemy at all.
	"Do you promise to keep it a secret?", he asked.
	"Yes", I murmured.
	The Doctor's new light was now so blinding that his whole office looked dark in comparison. Nothing else could be seen.
	"Good."
	There was a momentary flash as the light encompassed the doctor's whole body, and then it quickly dies, like a big studio light being turned off. The scene which replaces it is my familiar underground sanctuary with its eternal ceiling and that comfortable feeling of genuine security. Despite the events with Doctor Cantaro, and with Carol, I feel as if I never left this place. Can that be true?
	To the left of me is the T.V., still glowing with meaningless pictures. To the right of me is some kind of machine, the purpose of which I can't figure out. There's something else I can see out of the corner of my right eye - it may be a cupboard or a chest of drawers. Apart from that, the only thing I can see from this angle is the top of a doorway on the front wall.
	
	Blinded by the light
	Revved up like a deuce another runner in the night.

	What is that song? It was Doctor Cantaro's light that made me think of it. That's the song that was on the radio when Tora and I were playing pool together in the psychiatric hospital just before bedtime. It was the first game of pool I had ever played, so I was making all sorts of dumb mistakes and she was winning. In fact, by the time I potted my first ball, she had -
	Wait a minute, stop. Who is Tora? One of the reasons I've lost my grip on reality is because I keep going off on tangents like this. Slow down. Shouldn't I be trying to think rationally, and figure out what my situation is? What's going on in the present?
	There's nothing going on in the present.
	So what we can gather is, time has somehow, inexplicably, come to a halt. At least, that's how we perceive it. But how long has time been halted like this?
	That is a meaningless question. If there is no time, then we can't measure the duration of anything.
	Be that as it may, we can still try to find the answers to some fundamental questions. Such as, who are we? Or more correctly, who am I? It seems that my name is most probably Stephen Clark, although that fact is far from definite. The only thing that it's based on is the events in these dream-states that I keep drifting into, and I don't even know it they're reflections of real life or not. This character Stephen Clark may or may not be me, but he creeps into my head so often, there must be a strong connection between me and him in any case. Like maybe I was him in a past life.
	The thing to do now, then, is to work out how I got to this point. What was it that happened just before time came to a halt? What caused it to happen, and what were the events that led up to it? I have so many scenarios and memories spinning 'round in my head, but I don't know which order they're supposed to go in. That's what makes it so confusing.
	Maybe we should work out exactly where "this point" is, the point where time stopped. Let's go over it again. I'm in a room without windows. Above me: a ceiling with fluorescent lights. To the left: A T.V., although the screen is so empty of meaning that it might as well be a microwave oven. To the right: some kind of machine, and now that I look at it again I think it's a gas cooker. To the front: A doorway, and beside that a refrigerator.
	To the rear: a window.
	Below me: a table.
	I'd been sitting there for more than half an hour, poised and ready. I didn't know what she was expecting when she came home, but she couldn't be expecting me to just roll over in defeat. Not with all the power I had. How well did she really know me, I wondered.
	The thing that was really cutting into me was the fear that I might never regain possession of my wheelchair, that I might have lost the battle. I also felt hatred for Mum and her underhanded thievery, and for that I intended to make her pay. What I did not want was for Dad to become involved; he was not likely to wake up from his daytime sleep after the nightshift, but if he happened to wake up and come out here, there might be some awkward questions to be answered. After all, I was about to cause a major scene.
	In the life of every mental patient, I thought, there must be at least one incident. An event that causes pain and embarrassment. That's what defines them as a mental patient. There has to be an incident that makes people take notice, and this is mine.
	I heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. A few seconds later, I heard the unmistakable sound of Mum's footsteps on the path. This is it, I thought, she's coming in and the wait is over. Remember the sequence - ask questions first, shoot later.
	The front door opened. My mother came into view, carrying her handbag. At first she looked pleased to see me, no doubt as a result of my relaxed-and-happy facade.
	"Stephen! You're up. This is a surprise. Did you walk in here?"
	I couldn't believe she was talking to me like this, after what she'd just done.
	"No, I didn't walk", I replied calmly. "I dragged myself in here. On my stomach."
	"Oh. Is that going to be your preferred method of transport from now on?"
	She was sort of making fun of me, in a vain attempt to get me on my feet sooner. I could feel the tension heating up now. "I hope not", I said.
	She started walking past the kitchen table. "I hope not too, but it's your choice."
	I glared at her. "Mum, where's the wheelchair?"
	She stopped walking. For the first time she started to look worried. Then she said: "O.K., Stephen, look I know this is going to be hard for you to come to terms with, but we had to take that wheelchair away from you. In the long run you'll see it's for the best, it really -"
	I interrupted. "You took it while I was sleeping, didn't you?"
	"Well - yes, Stephen, but it was the only way. To get you back to normal again. That wheelchair has become an obsession for you. Can't you see what it was doing to you? It was dragging you away from recovery. And you were threatening to kill people who took your wheelchair away. That's not like you! I had to take the wheelchair away, for your own good."
	My eyes frowned up at hers. She was looking more like Doctor Cantaro every second, with her delusions of authority. The explanations only made me angrier. "You don't decide what's good for me", I said coldly.
	"Well it's not just me! Doctor Cantaro and I had a talk yesterday and we agreed that - - - - - - - 
	(that it would be best if you spend some time in a psychiatric hospital", said the doctor. "Now don't answer straight away - I know how you must be feeling about the whole situation, but I really think a short stay in a psych hospital could do you a world of good."
	I was wondering how Doctor Cantaro could make room for such a long appointment as this one in his busy schedule. He had just finished a lengthy discourse about how great powers come with responsibility, and how power can sometimes corrupt a person, and how superheroes in comic-books are so idealised. It had been a long time since I had uttered a word, and a long time since I had looked in his eyes.
	"I'm worried about you, Stephen", he continued. "I think you need help. When a person starts pointing guns at other people to get what he wants, it's not necessarily a psychological disorder - it might be just greed for money. But when he starts pointing guns at people in order to stay disabled, and to stay wheelchair bound, then we have to say that it is a psychological disorder. And that holds true whether the gun is "magical" or not. Do you see what I'm saying here? There's something wrong inside your mind which has caused you to become so - attached - to this wheelchair and this lifestyle, it's gone beyond anything normal or rational. If we don't do something about it, then it could ruin your whole life, and your parents' lives. The people in the psychiatric hospital can help you. If you say yes, then I can get them to admit you today, 'cause they have an empty bed there. The choice ultimately is yours - no one's going to force you into anything, but will you at least give this a try?"
	Finally he stopped talking. Finally he asked me a question. "O.K.", I said, "whatever. I don't care. As long as I can keep the wheelchair, I don't care where you put me."
	The doctor smiled. "O.K. then. After this interview is over, I'll give a call to the CAT team, or the Crisis Assessment and Treatment team, and they will come over and talk to you. You'll have to explain the whole situation to them. But I don't want you to say a word about your magical gun powers; just tell them that)
	- - - - - - - that it would be best if I take the wheelchair away from you. You need to learn that guns can't get you what you want, and you need to forget about the idea of keeping the wheelchair, because the world doesn't work that way."
	Mum was obviously fully confident that she was safe from my powers. It was as if she imagined a protective motherly shield around herself. I lifted my eyebrows way up high. "Do you really think taking the wheelchair away will solve the problem?", I enquired.
	"Yes. I think it will."
	I brought my eyebrows down again and pointed my finger at her. "Well, think again."
	The hand changed into a gun.
	Time has come to a halt.

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	

	"I had to wait for a long time in the reception area of the psychiatric hospital, and my parents arrived on the scene. They had brought me a box full of clothes and other belongings which I had requested. After an eternity of waiting around, we were met by another doctor, Dr. Quackamura, who interviewed us again."
	The sound of the pen on my diary could be heard clearly in this quiet room, as tiny letters flew onto the page. It was already the longest diary entry I had ever written. Starting with the events in the morning, the conflict with Mum, moving through to the discussion with Cantaro, and then on to the afternoon events in the psychiatric hospital, it had been quite a day. I thought yesterday had been important, the day when I had revealed my powers to Doctor Cantaro and his orderly. And then I had gone to bed thinking the next day would be relatively ordinary. But today had been possibly even more important, certainly more complicated. By the end of the day I was living in a new place, the psychiatric hospital - and the near future looked very different. I continued with the diary:
	"Finally Ma and Pa left and I had my bags searched by nurse Gloria. I guess she was looking for sharp objects or drugs or something. Little did she know that I was packing the ultimate weapon in my hand. Actually I was somewhat afraid that she was going to confiscate my pens, but she didn't confiscate anything. After that she told me my room number and I..."
The door handle turned suddenly. I thought it was just the nurse peeking in to check on me again, but instead it was a large middle aged man and he came all the way in. "Hello", he said.
	"Hello", I replied. That was all.
	This must be Eric, I thought. I had seen Eric's name on the door when I came in. He was my room-mate. I got back to my diary as he ambled over to his own bed.
	"...went off by myself to find it. Something about this whole scene was making me happy. Everything seemed to be going my way. Once I was alone in my bedroom I could forget about the mess with my parents and just be ecstatic about the way things had turned out for me. Just a few hours earlier I had succeeded in getting the wheelchair back; it was a triumph I couldn't really celebrate at the time. But I celebrated as I explored my new bedroom, and everything was perfect. I did some of my traditional wheelchair spins, and danced in a sitting position. Then I put my things away in the drawers and..."
	My writing was interrupted by Eric, who had been getting ready for bed and was now under the covers. "You gonna be writing for long, mate?"
	I looked up from the diary. This was a dilemma. Eric would want to turn the lights out, no doubt. Two words escaped my lips:
	"Yes, I..."
	Then I hauled myself off the bed and into the wheelchair, without turning on the brakes. Grabbing the diary and the pen, I wheeled myself out of the room. On the way out I turned off the light.
	For the next few minutes my diary-writing took place in the long corridor with bedrooms leading off it. I continued:
	"...cupboards at lightning speed. Such was my enthusiasm, the task was finished in next to no time. After that I sat myself on the bed and started to write this diary entry. I was hot after all my furious activity. During the diary writing I tried to stay happy, but I felt a change coming over as I described to you the nasty events of the morning. It was more of a physical change than emotional - a horrid, sickly feeling deep down inside my gut. It was there when I remembered the method by which I'd caused everyone. I was still trying to tell myself everything was O.K. when a nurse called me out for dinner at five o'clock. I wheeled myself out and joined the end of the dinner queue, even though..."
	"Will you be going to bed soon?", said a voice. I looked up from the diary. A nurse had spoken - I thought it was the same black man who had called me out for dinner. It was just a question, but I recognised it as an urging to quit writing and turn in. Reluctantly I admitted to myself that I wasn't going to get this finished today - but I had to at least put a cap on the sentence.
	"...I had no desire for sustenance", I wrote. Then I closed the diary and began the delicate process of opening my bedroom door without hitting the base of the wheelchair on it.

Chapter 4
	The bullet emerged from the gun, but it was not aimed at Doctor Cantaro; it shot up and hit the canopy of a tree standing next to the carpark. Leaves were violently disturbed. That disturbance was enough to put the fear back into the doctor and make him realise once again that his life was in danger. I had felt a moment of intense pleasure as the bullet was ejaculated, but it was short lived and not as strong as I had been led to expect. That bullet had been a part of me, inside my hand - now it was out there somewhere in the wasteland. Even if I'd had the time to go search for it, there was probably no way of inserting it back into myself. For a moment there was an empty hole inside me where the bullet had been, but it was quickly replaced by another one. The second bullet felt identical to the first - just as eager to get out.
	"Real gun, real bullets, see?", I said.
	"O.K.", said Doctor Cantaro, glancing from the gun to the tree in fearful confusion. "What do you want?"
	"I want you to promise that you'll load the wheelchair into the car after I get in."
	"O.K., I promise. Now please put the gun away."
	The doctor's words sounded sincere enough; I lowered the gun and turned the wheelchair around, keeping an eye on Brian and Cantaro all the while. Then I lifted myself out of the wheelchair and into the car seat, with the hunk of gun-metal bearing much of my weight. The doctor took the wheelchair and pushed it slowly around to the rear of the vehicle where my mother was waiting.
	"Mrs Clark, the keys please?", he asked.
	My mother seemed to come out of a trance. She started fumbling around in her handbag for the keys to the car boot, but her eyes looked glazed and unfocussed; the task of finding the keys took far too long. She shut her eyes tightly for a couple of seconds, and then opened them; I could see that they were moist with tears. As she found the keys and handed them over, I heard her say a few words to the doctor in a confused, garbled voice.
	"But Doctor - what do I - how'm I s'posed to - what am I -"
	The doctor hushed her and put the keys back in her hand, indicating that she had to open the boot herself. As she did so, I thought I heard him murmuring to her softly, though I couldn't hear what he was saying. He then made a gesture to Brian indicating that he should take care of the wheelchair loading. I saw my mother and Cantaro retreat to a short distance away - they were talking to eachother under their breaths. She was wringing her hands anxiously, he was making a few gesticulations as if explaining something carefully. I didn't really care what they were saying; all I cared about was Brian loading the folded wheelchair into the boot. After his task was finished, I turned my gun back into a hand a flexed my fingers with relief.
	Mum nodded at Doctor Cantaro and he came over to talk to me. "Stephen", he said. "Ah, no gun, excellent! Stephen, your mother and I want to have a little talk up at Burchill Ward - she's in a very emotional state. We'll only be a few minutes - do you mind waiting?"
	I shook my head. The doctor thanked me and headed back towards the hospital building, accompanied by Mum and Brian. Finally I was left alone. I couldn't remember the last time I had been completely alone, this far away from other human beings - the hospital life was a communal life. That was one of the drawbacks of it, as far as I was concerned. My personal space was constantly being invaded.
	"But sometimes it's good to be sharing a room with someone, isn't it? I mean, it would get so lonely at night otherwise."
	I could think of plenty of arguments against that. But the communal lifestyle was pretty much the only drawback. No - perhaps the food was another.
	"The food is really bad at this place. I mean, yesterday's sausages were O.K., but..."
	"What? You thought the sausages were O.K., Angie? I couldn't eat mine - they weren't cooked."
	We could do with a bit more choice -
	"I was really complaining about the potato salad", said Angie.
	"Look guys, we've already addressed the problem of the food", said Connie the nurse. "Let's move on. Are there any other complaints?"
	"Yes", shouted Fred. "The showers aren't hot enough!"
	"Keep it down, Fred. I told you there's nothing we can do about the showers."
	"Well something should be done about it!"
	"I have a complaint", said Tora. "We should be able to stay up until one in the morning. All those in favour?"
	Some patients raised their hands half heartedly and smiled in sympathy with Tora's comment.
	"If no one has any more serious complaints, said Connie, "then let's move on to the next item on the agenda. Lloyd?"
	A bearded man sat up suddenly and said "What? Oh -", as if he'd just woken up. He stared at the laminated agenda for a few seconds and murmured, "Does anyone have a thought for the day?"
	"Do unto others as you would have them do unto you", suggested Margaret the dumb old lady.
	"Oh come on Margaret, you say that at every meeting!", cried Daisy, the smart old lady.
	"Well it's such a good thought for the day, it should be said at every meeting."
	"Can't we have something original?"
	"Too late", said Frank, the minutes-taker. "I've already written it down."
	"Lloyd, close the meeting", called Connie.
	"Meeting closed", mumbled Lloyd.
	"Well done Lloyd!"
	"You did well Lloyd!"
	"Come on Angie, let's go get a coffee."
	"Have you got a cigarette, Fred?"
	I watched the surplus mental patients get up and leave, one by one. I never quite understood why most of them had to leave as soon as the meeting was over - surely they had nothing better to do than sit around in the living-room, although some of them had to go outside straight away for a nicotine fix. The remaining patients were usually the ones who wanted to watch T.V. all day or go back to sleep on the lounge-suite. I was not one of these, yet I stayed in the living room a little while longer to observe the subtleties of human behaviour involved in the transition from meeting-mode to normal-living-room mode. It wasn't worth staying here for long periods, because all the interesting patients would generally go outside to sit around in their traditional coffee-drinking group. But this time, one interesting patient remained - it was Tora. She was sitting next to me.
	"The food isn't really that bad here, is it?", she asked.
	"No. I don't know."
	She looked around at the other patients with their blank, far-away expressions and turned back to me. "I've only been here for one day so I haven't tasted much of the food. How long have you been here?"
	"About a month."
	Tora nodded. "I haven't seen you around the ward much. Where do you hide out in the daytime?"
	"Well I generally hide out - er - hang out in the dining-room, in the daytime."
	"Why do you spend so much time there?"
	I shrugged. "It's a fine place to sit."
	"But it's so segregated from the rest of the ward! You say you like to observe people -"
	How did she know that?
	"-and yet you spend all your time down here in the dining-room, deliberately shutting yourself off from human contact! It doesn't make sense, Stephen!"
	This nurse was beginning to rile me up. What business was it of hers where I chose to hang out?
	"That's not true!", I said. "People come into the dining room often!"
	"How often?", asked Connie with a smirk. "Three times a day, for meals? That's about fifteen minutes per meal, what about the rest of the time?"
	"It's more than that", I replied. "They come in at afternoon tea and morning tea as well."
	"Yeah, well at least the cake is good", said Tora.
	"Mmm. Yeah", I mumbled, feeling rather confused. The cake is good? What sort of a comeback was that?
	"It must have been a real drag being in a wheelchair all the time", said Tora. "What's wrong with your legs?"
	"Oh, well I can't walk on 'em 'cause they're too weak."
	"Too weak? That's a joke. Me 'n all the other nurses know there's nothing wrong with your legs - you could walk on them if you wanted to. But you don't even try."
	Pointless. Everything she said was pointless.
	"That's my choice to make", I said. "It's no one's business but my own. They're MY legs - I'LL decide whether to walk or not."
	"Well you seem pretty cool although you have the attitude of a five year old", said Cora.
	This is all getting too confusing - maybe I should just leave. But in which direction? Should I go east to the living room to escape Connie, or west to the dining room to escape Tora? It depends on which person I'm speaking to, in the first place. When I look up into that hybrid face, it makes my heart melt and harden at the same time.
	"Why should we care for you when there's really sick people here to take care of? Don't you believe that you're a very special person?", asked Tonnie.
	Hearing these loaded questions from Tonnie made me want to kiss her and then smash her face in. My thoughts were becoming clouded with love and hate. How could I give a coherent answer when I was so overcome?
	"Look, why don't you just get out of here?", I demanded.
	YOU CAN'T SAY THAT TO TORA!
	"I'm sorry", said Tornie. "Are you trying to watch television?"
	Oh no! What have I done? She'll think I hate her now.
	"N-not you", I stammer, backpedaling. "You don't have to leave -"
	"I'll say! You're the one who's going to leave, freeloader! I'll make sure of it!", said TorraconitoniaconnatorcorncontorSTOP IT!!! SHE IS NEITHER CONNIE NOR TORA AND YOU'RE NOT IN THE PSYCH WARD! You're down here in the I.C.U.! Time is not passing so you don't need to answer! Get a grip on yourself, man.
	It's true - I am in the I.C.U., and I do keep drifting away. What is it with all these thoughts that crowd my head, pushing out reality and tricking me into believing I'm really out there doing stuff in my wheelchair? Are they dreams? They don't feel like dreams - I can remember them too well. And I get the feeling that they would actually make sense if only I could get them in the right order. Where does it all start? It starts with a suicide attempt, right? I think I remember how it happened, too - I jumped off a footbridge onto the freeway. But is that really the start? I don't know. It could be the end, for all I know. The start or the end.
	What I seem to remember best are the events that took place in the middle, in hospital. But which hospital? There seems to be more than one. I remember that I went from the Rehabilitation Centre to the Psychiatric Hospital, around April 20th; that was Doctor Cantaro's doing. But how did I come to be in the Rehabilitation Centre in the first place? I'm sure I didn't go there straight after my suicide attempt. Did I spend some time at home in between? I know I spent some time at home at some point, living with my parents - wasn't that when I locked myself in my room and taught myself to walk, slowly and painfully? No it can't have been. Maybe I should cast my mind back to the early days, at Marramlake Hospital, to look for a clue.
	I'm lying in a hospital bed, with clean sheets, with a colour T.V., with my chest of metal drawers, with my books and my tapes and my electronic games. I'm lying there - 
	And lying there -
	And lying there - 
	And nothing happens.
	But something's got to happen! Someone comes in.
	Who?
	My Dad. He comes to visit.
	He is carrying his small grey bag and greets me in a friendly manner. I knew he wanted to make me feel like everything was O.K., like he was giving me moral support in that difficult time. It's ironic really, 'cause I know it was more difficult for him than it was for me.
	"Hi Steve", he said, smiling. "How's it going?"
	"Fine", I answered. This was one of his first visits after I had got out of the Intensive Care Unit, when my physical health was still a major concern.
	"No oxygen mask today?", he asked, sitting down at the bedside.
	"No. I don't need that anymore", I replied.
	"Any other news?"
	"They say I'm going to have an operation on my foot in a couple of days", I said.
	"Yeah? I was talking to Doctor Quackinski about that. I hear they're going to put some metal stuff in your foot to hold it together. Are you nervous about it?"
	I shrugged and said nothing.
	"I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. Here I've got something to show you."
	He reached into his bag and took out a little cut-out newspaper article. I took it and started to read. "I thought you might like to see this", he said in a soft voice.
	The article was about a young man in Watsonia who had stolen a car, gone for a joyride, knocked down a couple of pedestrians and crashed into a shop. Apparently he had been very drunk at the time. And I thought to myself, so what?
	"I was reading this article yesterday", murmured Dad, "and I couldn't help thinking of you and making the comparison. This guy was nineteen - the same age as you."
	I nodded and kept my eye on the jagged edge of paper which had been scissored roughly. Dad continued talking in his soft and friendly voice.
	"It just goes to show you what some nineteen-year-olds get up to, while you've never done anything like that in your life. If you had to divide the human race into good people and bad people, then he would probably be one of the bad people, while you would certainly be one of the good people. The world needs more people like you. That's why we can't afford to lose you. If you had died, there would have been one less good person in the world. It doesn't make sense to have you die, while people like this guy are still alive."
	I just said, "Mmmm." I didn't care. My father's words didn't impress me much at all - he was obviously oversimplifying the issue. He must have thought about it a lot, though - I could just picture him reading the article in the kitchen at home, tapping it with his finger and thinking If I show Stephen this, maybe it will put him off suicide for life! He must have had a list, if only a mental one, headed "Ways to make Stephen Less Suicidal." And under the heading, No.1: Show him the article. No. 2: Give him some dried apricots.
	"Oh, before I forget", said Dad. "I brought you some more dried apricots to replenish your supply."
	He took the plastic bag of apricots out of his bag and extended his arm towards me. As the bag was suspended over my chest, my father's arm suddenly disappeared, as did the rest of him. The plastic bag is now hanging motionless over me, with no visible support. Nothing above it, nothing below. I have a feeling that this strange phenomenon is somehow linked with the group of doctors who are now standing around my feet. The white-coated men and women are little more than two inches tall, standing on the sheet, looking up at my bandaged ankles. One of them seems to be pointing up at the left one, as if to say "This area has been severely traumatised." Another one is taking notes. The rest of them are nodding and passing comments to eachother about my foot. What are they going to do to it? I don't want them changing anything. I feel like I want to kick them away, stop them from making plans about me without my permission. But I can't.
	Maybe the foot doctors are not so important. Their intentions are probably honorable anyway. My real concern is the group around my head. They, too, are pointing and discussing, although I can't make out any words. All I can see are the moving lips and the gestures. I feel like a beached whale surrounded by whale-oil traders. If I tilt my head to the right slightly I can see a man with glasses who seems to be the leader. He is carrying a long pointer. He points at a white board behind my head, with tiny blue words written at the top: "Ways to make Stephen happier." This whiteboard seems to be the focus of attention, with my head as a practical teaching aid. Underneath the main heading, the board is divided into two section: "Things to expose him to", and "Things to shield him from."
	Who are these people? They aren't wearing white coats like the foot doctors, but they all have some sort of i.d. badges. Try as I might, I can't read the badges, nor the tiny writing that fills up the main part of the whiteboard. All I can read are the headings, "Things to tell him", and "Things to hide from him."
	They said something different before, didn't they? The headings have changed. I turn my head to the side and scan the faces of the miniature people. One of them is crouched down on the pillow and another one is standing beside him, resting her hand on his shoulder. Both of them are watching and listening attentively. I didn't realise it at first, but these are my parents - they are part of the crowd. What are they up to?
	He leader smiles as he points to the next item on the list. The whiteboard is very hard to read from this angle, but I strain to read the headings again.
	A second later the whiteboard blurs out of existence and the people go with it. Dad appears above me with his hand around the dried apricot bag. I only caught a glimpse of the headings before they disappeared, but I think they said, "Lies to tell him" and "Truths to hide from him." I get the feeling that I just slipped into a place where I wasn't meant to go.
	"I'll just put them in your drawer here", said Dad, reaching over me. He hadn't been aware of the time delay. The apricots were still the focus of his attention - they had never disappeared from view, and I took this as an indication that they had remained the focus of my attention too. I don't know if my memory can be trusted on this one.
	Dad leaned back and said "Have you given any thought to what you want to do for the rest of the year?"
	I shook my head.
	"Well", he added, "you know you can do whatever you want to do. It's your choice."
	I nodded. Dad reached into his bag and brought out another piece of paper.
	"I discovered this a few days ago. It's just an idea. Have a read."
	The piece of paper was actually a colourful advertising brochure for something called The Great Queensland Bike Ride. I read the sales pitch - apparently a whole big bunch of cyclists get together and ride cross-country for about a week, and every night they congregate in a designated camping area and set up their tents. Food is provided, along with entertainment and a range of other facilities. The cycle route was described in detail, with poetically worded descriptions of the natural scenery. It all sounded like a nice holiday to be had near the end of the year, something different.
	"What do you think?", asked Dad after a long period of time. "Does that sound like something you'd like to go on?"
	It did sound like a desirable trip, something that would offer a challenge, a sense of belonging, an escape, and I would probably come out of it with a few decent happy memories. I was no stranger to cycling - for years I had been riding to school on my bike. It was a good bike, too, fairly new with eighteen gears. Riding it across the countryside could be fun - it might be fun - it would be -
	"This would be good", I said.
	Of course Dad would be going with me - that went without saying. I could never get out to Queensland by myself. It would not be the first time Dad had taken me out on holiday, just me and him; before my suicide attempt we had gone camping, bushwalking, skiing, and it looked like cycling was his next plan. He wanted to involve me in active, healthy pursuits, especially now that my mental health was in need of a boost. No doubt he had been instructed to seek out activities such as this by the authorities.
	"Yes, I think it sounds like fun", said Dad. "I'm going to arrange to have my work-leave around that time, and we could go up there by train. If you like."
The authorities - they had taught him what to say as he had sat around absorbing information from the whiteboard with the other students. The Great Queensland Bike Ride must have been one of the items on the first list. But what of the second list - the list of things to hide from me? It had been just as long.
	For every beautiful thing that they show you, I told myself, there is something ugly that they're hiding from you.
	Suddenly I became convinced that Dad was hiding something from me, something important. I even suspected this whole Bike Ride thing was a lie, a standard item that he'd lifted straight from the "Lies to tell Stephen" column. Who had produced this glossy brochure? The authorities! They were trying to bend my mind around by deceiving me, and when the time comes for the Bike Ride they would find some loop-hole and re-write what they had said. Bike Ride? It would be cancelled or overshadowed by some terrible darkness that they were hiding from me. The darkness is the truth, the light is a fabrication, and they would twist their words to convince me that they had never been lying.
	"Do you want to go on the Bike Ride?", asked Dad.
	The room was getting hazy around me now - I could almost feel the authorities watching me like they'd watch one of their lab-rats. Everything in the room - the beds, the cupboards, the other two patients, even the nurses passing in the corridor, became parts of a single continuous surface. I saw a glint of reflected light off the scene and realised that none of it was real - it was two-dimensional, like my T.V. screen. Even my feet down the end of the bed had become flat. Then I could see faces of the authorities coming through the glass, distorting it into their own shapes. Their eyes were staring into me. Carol the physiotherapist was there, as was nurse René, Doctor Cantaro and two other quacks. It was time to meet them face to face. They had been behind the scenes all the time; now they had become the scene.
	Once their faces were through the glass, their arms followed suit and advanced even further forward. Then their legs and bodies pushed through, advancing so fast, I flinched back in fear that they were going to kick me. But they were all at a safe distance. Their chairs were arranged in a circle around the room. My chair was a part of that circle, although mine was the only one on wheels. The authorities' eyes were cold and clinical, with that superior glint as if they all knew best.
	"Stephen, what do you want to do with your life?", asked Carol. "What's your plan?"
	I looked out the window. "No plan. I - I don't want to do anything right now, just relax and do nothing. In the future, maybe a bit of painting, a bit of computing, a bit of music, nothing that involves - going out."
	There was a pause, in which Doctor Cantaro gave a derisive sniff and the walls of the interview-room snapped into focus.
	"It's just that if you refuse to walk then you'll be cutting yourself off from so many opportunities. I mean, walking, it's so important to life in general. Your options will be narrowed. Severely."
	"What about the Bike Ride?", interjected Dad, as if trying to get back to the subject. "Don't you want to go on the Bike Ride now?"
	I put my hand to my head and tried to remember whether we had been talking about the Bike Ride two minutes ago or two months ago. "No", I said wearily. "Forget the Bike Ride, I don't want to do that anymore."
	Dad leaned back in disappointment. His instructions, as he had seen them on the whiteboard, had failed to produce to desired effect.
	Doctor Cantaro turned to René, the short, middle-aged nurse. "René, would you say Stephen has been uncooperative with the help we've been giving him?"
	"Well, at first he was just spending too much time in bed", said René in her accented voice. "I encouraged him to get up and walk around when he wasn't doing the therapy program, but he wouldn't cooperate much at all. That was the first inkling I got that he didn't care about his recovery. Then I heard about this thing with him refusing to do his physiotherapy, and I realised that it was more than just apathy - he was against his recovery altogether. We've all tried to talk to him about it, but -" she shrugged.
	"What about hydrotherapy?", asked one of the other doctors. "Did you try taking him down to the pool?"
	"We encouraged him to go to the pool but he said he would refuse to do hydrotherapy, just as he had refused to do physiotherapy. We saw no point in forcing him."
	There was silence in the interview-room. I felt like everyone was giving me accusing stares, even though I wasn't looking at anyone's eyes. They were sending me the irritated vibe. My parents weren't irritated, I knew - they were just worried. But Doctor Cantaro's irritation was big enough to make up for my parents' lack thereof.
	"Stephen", he said at last. "You do realise that you won't be able to keep that wheelchair forever?"
	I just looked at him and frowned.
	"You WILL have to leave it behind when you're discharged. And if you continue with this uncooperative attitude of yours, then your discharge will be very soon. We can't keep you here for long without you making an effort."
	I shook my head, about to answer, but Mum spoke first. "I think the important thing", she said, is that Stephen receives appropriate psychiatric counseling. I mean obviously his main problem is in the mind, isn't it?"
	The doctor looked at her indifferently. "I believe you've already made an appointment with Dr. Watties?"
	"Yes. It's still a few days away."
	"O.K. Well the outcome of that will be uncertain, but there's no reason why Stephen should remain here any longer. Stephen, you'll be discharged tomorrow. Do you understand about the wheelchair?"
	This time I couldn't stay silent. He was waiting for me to answer. I tightened my grip on the armrest, tilted my head forward, and said softly, "I'm keeping the wheelchair."
	The Doctor gave a half-smile as if in amusement. "Stephen, that's not an option. A wheelchair is a rather expensive piece of equipment. We wouldn't mind lending it to you for a short period of time, but what you're asking is that we give it to you - forever - or for an undefined period of time. Unless your parents are willing to buy you a wheelchair in the near future -"
	Mum shook her head on cue. "We wouldn't", she said.
	"Then I'm afraid you're going to have to do without a wheelchair after you leave here."
	My grip on the armrest tightened and the veins stood out on the back of my right hand. My arm was shaking with the tension - the authorities might not have noticed, had the effect not been amplified by the vibrations of my shirt sleeve. The tightness spread to my shoulders and stomach. I spoke in that soft, low voice again: "I'm keeping the wheelchair. I'm holding onto it. You can't take it away from me."
	The authorities looked at me with their clinical detachment. I knew they thought I was crazy, that I was delusional, but I didn't care. They would learn in time of my true power. In a way I was tricking them into believing that I had no plan up my sleeve other than just "holding on." That was the genius of it - lulling them into a false sense of security. I just wished my parents didn't have to be there to see it. They were getting more worried by the second, and embarrassed besides.
	"I think I should be there tomorrow when you leave", said Doctor Cantaro thoughtfully. "Yes, I think that would be best." He uncrossed his legs. "Well, is the meeting finished?"
	The other authorities nodded agreement and they began to get up. No one looked at me. They just shuffled out the door, eager to get back to their various hospital duties. But they would remember this meeting, and someday they would be telling their friends, "I met Stephen Clark on the day before he went public with his powers." Or, "...on the day before he threatened to kill the doctor." Or, "...on the day before he started his homicidal rampage." Whatever. As Mum and Dad took me out into the corridor, I thought about Doctor Cantaro and how he had become a nemesis. When I first met him he wasn't important - I couldn't even remember the first time I had heard his name. It was just this meeting that had put him in the evil category. He obviously didn't give a toss about my mental or physical health - he just wanted me out. I was a malingerer to him. As far as he was concerned, I could spend the rest of my life dragging myself around by clawing at the earth with my hands, unable to walk, unable to roll. And why had he said he wanted to be there when I left? He was going to take time out of his busy schedule, just to personally witness my expulsion from this hospital and make sure the wheelchair was taken away from me. Why? Because he hated my especially, that was why.
	My parents were saying something to me; I wasn't listening. Nothing they said could have any relevance to the situation, because they didn't know what the situation was. They didn't know I had the ultimate weapon concealed in my hand. But they were waiting for me to answer.
	"You don't know what the situation is", I said simply.
	We were entering the patients' quarters now, the room which would be my home for one more night.
	"Then what IS the situation?", asked Mum as we pulled up alongside the bed.
	I put the brakes on and started the wheelchair-to-bed transferal procedure. I wanted to shake my parents off and be alone with my thoughts. "Look, why don't you just go home, relax, stop worrying, and have a sleep on it?"
	"Well that's all very well for you to say", said Dad, "but it's going to be very hard for us to stop worrying about what's going to happen to you. I'm especially worried about tomorrow."
	"I don't know what you're so worried about", said Mum, addressing Dad. "It'll be me who has to pick him up tomorrow. You'll be on a morning shift."
	I drew the blankets up over my pipe-cleaner legs. "Neither of you has to worry. This is my problem, my battle. I'm nineteen years old; I can take care of myself."
	"But you're not well, Stephen."
	My mother's words hung in the air for a second as I wondered whether or not I should contradict her. After all, my legs and feet weren't healthy, but that was not necessarily a bad thing. Before I could make up my mind, I was suddenly struck by the image of my mother and father towering over me, looking at me seriously and presenting a united front - for a moment I became convinced that I really was sick, not only in body but in mind as well. My parents looked like the smallest part of a giant institution which dictated what was normal and what was sick. How could I argue against a collective consciousness of such vast dimensions?
	The illusion breaks and I realise that what I'm looking at is not my parents at all; it's that nameless machine that sits beside my bed eternally. I'm back in the safety of the present.
	My parents seem to be popping up quite a lot in my thoughts lately, obscuring reality. I wonder what became of them. Surely they still exist on some level. I wonder if they know where I am. I had a good relationship with my parents - better than most people, anyway. Maybe I still do. My Dad is an air-traffic controller - he sits in the control tower at Tolhurst airport and tells the planes when to take off and land. I've been with him to the tower a few times, for various reasons - it seems like the sort of job which would be very easy to do, once you know how. Not too boring, either. Every time I think of it, it strikes me that he's found the perfect place to make his own contribution to society - he's found the job that suits him perfectly. My Mum, too, has found her niche in life - she's a secretary in an office job which she plans to stick with until her retirement. They've both found comfortable places for themselves, cooperating with the whole big system of humanity. And what am I doing? Resisting it, fighting to keep some wheelchair. At least I was. What am I doing now? Nothing - just lying here under the ceiling in this timeless place. But that's not my fault. Maybe I have found my niche in life, just like Ma and Pa. This is not so bad. Maybe this is what I was born to do.
	The ceiling above me ripples, as if seen through a layer of disturbed water. It tends to do that sometimes. It's almost as if the room itself is on the other side of an invisible barrier; I am truly alone down here, in a sunken crevice behind my watery shield.
	The T.V. is almost directly above me now. The screen cannot be tilted forward, but if I look up through the water at an angle I can see it. How many people can claim to have watched T.V. underwater? Not many.
	I took the clear plastic cup of water off my face and looked around. It was night time in the ward but everyone was still awake. Janet, the woman in the bed next to mine, was receiving visitors. George, the man in the bed diagonally across from mine, was watching his own T.V. As for the other bed, the one opposite mine, it was empty for the time being. I pushed the T.V. away on its creaky metal arm and raised myself up on my elbows slightly. My feet were peeking out from under the bedclothes at the other end. It had been a long time since they had worn any sort of shoes. Day after day they had lain on their foot pillow, pampered like a royal couple. All hail the feet. It would not be long now before their reign came to an end.
	I turned the television's volume down. The movie wasn't really holding my interest - what I wanted to hear was Janet's conversation with her visitors. Janet had told me earlier that she was going to have her appendix out tonight. Her family and friends had gathered around to support her and every now and then they would drop a mention of food, to tease her in the knowledge that she couldn't eat anything before the operation. She groaned in that hungry way and commented on how cruel they were being. The joke was just beginning to wear off when Anne walked in, accompanied by her father.
	"Hello", she said to everybody.
	I was half afraid she'd never come back.
	"Anne!", called Janet. "Where've you been?"
	"I've just been at home", replied Anne as everyone turned their heads to see her. "I was on weekend leave. How are you?"
	"Oh, I'm O.K., but I'm going to have an operation tonight."
	"What? No way! Really?"
I glanced sideways at Anne as she found herself a vacant spot at Janet's bedside, and for the hundredth time I reminded myself how lucky I was to be in the same room as her. Anne was even younger than me - barely old enough to be in the adult ward. She was beautiful and vivacious. Everyone was friends with her. Apparently she had some sort of problem with her glands and that's why she was here, but you couldn't tell it by looking at her. Anne - and, to a lesser extent, Janet and George - were providing me with enough positive vibes to qualify this era as a golden age. These were the days I would look back to, whenever I needed a reminder of what was so great about being in Marramlake Hospital. I wouldn't remember Claudia with her annoying towel habits, nor the painful syringes, nor the frustrating delays that preceded my wheelchair. I would remember this - three friends in one room, Janet, Anne and George. And me. Even though I was just the observer, I still felt a sense of belonging.
	Anne finished her discussion with Janet and her visitors, and turned around. I was sure she would go straight to her own bed, but instead she came over to me.
	"So how are you, Stephen?", she said, perching herself on the edge of my mattress.
	She had never been this close to me before.
	"Fine", I replied. It was my automatic response - all I could manage under the circumstances. The girl was overpowering. She was like heat from a fire drifting over to me on a cold winter's day. I wanted that moment to last and last, just to have her sitting on the edge of my bed for hours.
	"Have you been walking at all?", she asked.
	"Oh, I've been putting my feet down a bit, taking a few steps." Anne nodded. I was too full of wonder and euphoria to even think of saying anything more - I knew she would leave soon if I didn't hold up my end of the conversation, but I didn't want to spoil the moment with the pain of communicating.
	"Well that's good", she said, and then she got up and left. The moment was ended. The fire was out, although the warmth still lingered for a few minutes afterward. Anne was across the room talking to George, and I could see already that George would be getting more of Anne's attention than I had. George was friendly. Friendliness was a gift. I wondered what I might have said to Anne to make her stay longer.
	Forget about it, Stephen, I thought. You wouldn't be able to handle Anne's attention for more than ten seconds. Just be content that you didn't say anything stupid while she was that close.
	I nodded and took a sip from my water tumbler. The liquid was cool and fresh. I laid my head down on the mattress and laid the base of the cup over my eyes once again. Then, I brought the T.V. into position.
	You could have mentioned that you're going to be transferred to the Rehabilitation Centre in a few days, I thought. That's one thing you could have said to prolong the encounter.
	The ripples flow -
	Wait a minute, stop. Rewind.
	You're going to be transferred to the Rehabilitation Centre in a few days.
	That's it! That's a clue. I'm pretty sure these events took place on April third, the day I will always remember as being the best day of my life. If that was just a few days before I was transferred then my transferal must have been - when? April the sixth? The seventh? Whatever. The main thing is that I went straight from Marramlake Hospital to the Rehabilitation Centre without going home in between, and I didn't stay in the Centre for more than a week or two. If I can work that out, then I can work anything out.
	What am I going to work out next? I think I need to get back to Melissa. What was she planning? Did her plans ever come to fruition? What did she do? Melissa is my sister. She -
	She is in the skin-care products selling business.
	She invited me out to the restaurant.
	She bought me a milkshake.
	She asked me about my powers -
	"If you want to make the best of it, then you ought to be discrete about it."
	That's not right! She didn't ask me about my -
	"About what?"
	"About you powers."
	No! Fight it! We've got to take control! It's my own head!
	"Why?"
	"You know there are laws in this country about firearms."
	Nnnnnnnnggg - can't remember where I was going -
	"I don't think they apply to me."
	The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"
	"'Cause my gun is different. It's magical."
	"But what if the police don't see it that way?", asked the Doctor. "You could well find yourself locked in a bullet-proof cell. For the rest of your life. Your powers won't do you any good there."
	I shook my head. "I don't think they have a cell strong enough to hold me. That gun I showed you yesterday - it was pretty small, but I can do bigger. I haven't fully tested my powers to the limit yet."
	Doctor Cantaro shrugged. "Big gun, small gun - whatever. If they don't have a cell strong enough, they can build one. They do have the resources. I mean, you can't claim that you're stronger than the whole system of law enforcement."
	Already I was glancing up at the office ceiling, trying to estimate how much firepower I could fit in here. "I don't know", I said. "I might be. It depends on where the limit is. I feel like I've only ever used a tiny fraction of my power. Let me form the gun again, and I'll show you."
	I held out my hand and tensed it up. Once again my will transformed the flesh and bone into metal - this time it was a much simpler gun, with no trigger. The whole thing ached with pleasure - I touched the barrel with my other hand and it felt warm. Deep inside, the living bullet rested firmly against a sensitive part of my hand, and I could sense its eagerness once again but this time I had to put aside any thoughts of shooting.
	"Careful with that thing, don't point it at me -"
	I sent a wave of psychological energy up my arm and the gun doubled in size. It felt no heavier than before. I repeated the process and the gun grew again. Then I realised I was doing this the hard way - it required no physical effort in the muscles of my arm, and I didn't need to do it in "waves" - all it took was the conscious will from my brain. With the gun pointed to an upper corner of the office, I looked at it and made it grow. It grew in width as well as length, and in just a few seconds it was a throbbing, shining tube of metal which took up nearly all of the air space in the doctor's office. The bullet was larger, too - I had a feeling that it could have demolished a large section of the wall, and it was longing to do just that. My head was flooded with the thrill of potential power within, but the thrill was somewhat incomplete as long as I had to restrain myself. The growth stopped.
	Doctor Cantaro was sitting there cowering with his mouth slightly ajar. I looked at him, then back up to the gun which was quivering slightly in its four walled prison. I could almost hear the weightless metal moaning to me, don't stop now! Make it bigger! You could make it as big as the whole hospital! Forget the walls!
	The gun put on another growth spurt and one of the sharp edges of the barrel scraped the wall, as I had become momentarily careless. It left a mark. Doctor Cantaro threw up his hands.
	"Wait - stop -"
	Time has come to a halt.

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	

"O.K., I'm still alive. It's been so long since I wrote in you, you probably thought I was dead, but I survived. Ten weeks in hospital and all that time I didn't ask anyone to bring in the diary. Why? Just lazy I guess. I'll probably regret it later. But you're here now and I'll try to get back into the diary writing routine. You've missed so much -"
	Deeper still in the night and all the televisions were off. My pen scratched in my own personal pool of light; I had asked the nurse specially to let me leave the overhead lamp on while I wrote. Janet's lamp was on too - some of her visitors were still present.
	"This is a good day to resume", I wrote. "Because I think this was the best day of my life. This is the day when all the goodness came together. For a start, I got myself a new wheelchair. My old one was a lemon - it didn't have any hand-rails so I had to wheel it by the tyres, and that meant my fingers were constantly getting jammed in the brakes. The brakes themselves didn't work - one side was too soft, the other was too hard, and then of course the wheels were out of alignment. Today I finally complained about it and they got me a new one."
	The sound of light sobbing drifted across from Janet's bed, and I realised that she was breaking down. I glanced over at her downcast face and quickly looked away. Her family had started with the encouraging comments, trying to placate her fears, but it was no use. She was scared terrified, of the coming operation. In just a few minutes the orderlies would be taking her down to the operating theatre, and there her appendix would be taken out. Even the knowledge that she would be asleep was no consolation. I picked up the pen and continued to write slowly.
	"Later the cool social worker Shelley took me out for a tour of the Geoffrey Furborugh Block and we hung out downstairs, in the lobby - I don't know why that gave me such a thrill, just a change of scene I guess. Later we went back to the ward and Shelley asked me if I'd play something on the synth for her, so I did. She liked it when I played "Music of the Night." I wish Anne had been there to hear it. But first I ought to explain who Anne is - she -"
	I broke off the sentence to gaze across at Anne, who was looking rather worried. Janet was still crying. Her family's comforting words seemed to have no effect. I looked at my own feet and just listened to the gentle sounds of sorrow, let them wash over me. It seemed to me that there was something very beautiful about Janet's lament, just the sound of it - I wanted to listen to it more. Not that I wished Janet to be more sad, but it was a nice sound. Some distant voice reminded me that I wasn't supposed to be gaining enjoyment from someone else's pain.
	What am I supposed to do then?, I asked. Get worried about it, like Anne? I can't force myself to worry. I decided to pick up the diary where I left off.
	"- is the eighteen year old chick in the bed opposite mine. I am fortunate to be in her company. She was out on weekend leave until -"
	It was no use. I couldn't write when this was going on. It was much too interesting. I wondered what it would be like to be scared of an operation. To me it was unimaginable - I had had some surgery done on my left foot a couple of months ago, but it had never crossed my mind to be scared. It was a very peaceful experience. My parents had been somewhat worried, of course, but that was because they cared about me more than I cared about myself. Maybe that's why I hadn't been scared - because I just didn't care about whether they botched it or not.
	The orderlies were transferring Janet onto a trolley now, and she was crying as they did it. Her family members were showing their concern. Anne called out to her.
	"Janet, don't worry. Five seconds before you go under, you'll burst out laughing, I know - that's what happened to me."
	Janet's visitors stayed in orbit around her while the trolley started on its journey. Looking at the terrified woman being taken away, I couldn't picture her bursting out laughing any time in the near future.
	The sobs faded off into the distance. I started to get back to the best-day-of-my-life diary entry, but it wasn't long before the night nurse was calling for lights out. I put the diary in my bed-side drawer, adjusted the back of my bed so that it was no longer raised, and snuggled my head down into the soft yet waterproof pillow. Somewhere far below in the active hub of the institution, Janet was falling asleep too.


Chapter Five

It was a rainy day in the city and I was sitting within the psychiatric hospital walls, smiling self-consciously. My wheelchair and I were parked at one of the dining-room tables. Connie was there. In my hand I held an open book, Robert Louis Stevenson's Treasure Island and my fingers were playing absently with the book-mark which said: "North East Crisis Assessment and Treatment Team WITH COMPLIMENTS." A minute ago I had been reading the book, but now I was smiling and avoiding Connie's gaze. I didn't like Connie, but I was smiling nevertheless.
	"Stephen", she said, "I can't see anything even remotely funny about this."
	Her voice was harsher and more nasal than any of the nurses that had stopped to speak with me in the dining room over the past few weeks. She was not an old nurse, nor a particularly ugly one, but I could sense the bitterness inside. She despised me. She had made that clear a long time ago. I tried not to smile, but it had been ages since anyone paid me any attention and I couldn't help reveling in it.
	"How much longer is this going to go on.?", she asked. "I know that all the staff an this ward are getting sick of it."
	"Well you're the only one who seems to be getting sick of it", I said, toning down the smile.
	"Maybe because I'm the only honest one."
	The drink-vending machine rumbled steadily, drowning out the rain.
	"Why are you doing it?", she demanded. "I don't think you've given me a single good reason yet."
	"I told you - it's easier and I get treated better as a disabled person than I did as a normal person."
	"Well that better treatment is going to end pretty soon - as soon as the doctors send you home and take away your wheelchair. You'll be forced to get of your rear-end and walk."
	I shook my head. "They're not going to take it away."
	"Yes they will. I'll make sure of it. I'll be there when they make the decision."
	I shook my head again, yearning to tell her about the gun but held back by my promise to Doctor Cantaro. "No they won't. They can't, because they know I'm not going to walk even if the wheelchair gets taken away."
	Connie put her hands on the table behind her and leaned back, staring at me all the while. "You know what that is?", she said. "It's a cop out. You're using this disability thing as crutch because you're afraid to make it in the real world."
	"I'm not afraid of anything", I said, stretching the truth.
	"Then why don't you go out there and be your best?"
	"Because this is better."
	Connie was silent for a second and then laughed scornfully. "Oh - that is such a cop out. You're not going to dodge responsibility that easily - we're not going to play along. Everyone knows you're just doing it to get attention."
	Suddenly I was hurt by her comment. Not because it was true, or even because it was false, but because it lay in that area between true and false that I couldn't respond to. I retreated into my usual silence.
	"You are!", she continued. "We're taking care of some truly sick people at this hospital; this ward has no vacancies. But there's nothing wrong with you. Why should we waste our time on a malingerer?"
	"I'm not a malingerer!", I said, showing signs of anger for the first time.
	"Do you even know what a malingerer is?"
	"Yes! It's a person who pretends to be ill."
	"That's right. To escape work. That's you."
	"No it isn't! I'm not pretending anything." But even as I said the words, I knew they weren't true - I was pretending that I didn't have a gun.
	"Yes you are. There's nothing wrong with you."
	"There is something wrong with me! My feet!"
	"You're faking it."
	I frowned at her and felt my lower jaw tense up. There was an impatient twitch running up and down my hand. For a moment I thought it was going to happen involuntarily, but the hand stayed put. "You'd better just watch what you say", I murmured.
	Connie seemed amused. "Oh yeah? Why? What are you gonna do?"
	I hesitated and thought it over. Dead end. "Nothing", I said. "Forget it. Just get out of here."
	"You're not keeping that wheelchair."
	"Get out of here. I'm sick of the sound of your voice."
	"No."
	I picked up my book and said, "I'm just going to ignore you."
	Connie stayed put and I knew without looking up that her cold iron façade remained the same. After a few seconds she said, "You're not keeping that wheelchair."
	I said nothing. Outside the rain pattered down and a car pulled up in the driveway. The sound of its motor cutting out drifted through the window. My eyes drifted over the words of "Treasure Island" without any comprehension.
	"You'll be leaving here on your feet", she said. "Limping or otherwise. Not rolling. Get that into your head." She shifted the weight onto her feet and walked out of the dining room, looking back at me as she did so. When she was gone, I took my eyes off the book and stared blankly at the whiteness of the table. Deep inside, my heart was beating faster than a bullet factory and I could feel my tongue tensing up angrily behind gritted teeth. Mentally, I was in another world - a world where I could blow a hole in Connie's stomach mid-argument without worrying about the consequences. The Connie-hatred seemed to weigh heavily on my right arm; I let the book fall closed and massaged my gun hand, letting it twist and deform randomly under the table. Some day, I thought, Some day I'm going to take out my gun and blow that nurse away. If anyone deserves a magic bullet, it's her.
	I heard the sound of a car door slamming and turned my head automatically to look out the window at the source of the sound. A teenage girl had just stepped out of the car into the rain - she had very short auburn hair and was carrying a large bag. As I watched, a member of the North Eastern CAT team got out of the driver's side door and started walking with her to the ward's entrance. I was too angry to wonder about the girl; I was making kill-Connie plans.
	Next time she comes up to me, that's when I'll do it. Next time she tries to start an argument. That will be the start of my reign of terror.
	But all of a sudden it seems a bit silly. What would killing Connie achieve? It would get her off my back, sure, but it would make everyone else hate me. There is nothing more hated in society than a man who kills a woman; they wouldn't even see the justification for it because they didn't witness her despicable riling process. And now I'm back in the intensive care unit, staring up at the ceiling once again. Connie is gone, she's far, far away - possibly nowhere. She's something out of another life. No point in making plans to kill her now.
	What was it that broke the spell? What cleared my head up so that I could see things as they are? I know I've been confusing reality with fantasy lately, but -
	That teenage girl. The red-head; she must have been Tora. That was Tora's entrance. As soon as I saw her, things began to clear up. Whatever happened to my plan to kill the nurse? Did I ever actually go through with it? I don't think so. Killing a nurse would be a major event - I'd remember a thing like that, wouldn't I? So apparently my anger towards Connie must have fizzled away and faded into insignificance. I'm only just now seeing a correlation between that and Tora's entrance.
	"So, how old are you?", asked Tora.
	"Nineteen."
	"I'm seventeen. I'll be eighteen in June."
	"Uh huh."
	Tora is the youngest patient in the psychiatric ward. Everyone loves Tora.
	"I just had a
	Tora had an embarrassing experience while she was here. She met this guy who seemed really nice and she made friends with him. She tried to be more than friends with him, but then she found out he was a nurse.
	"I think it's great that you're
	There was another guy, too, an Asian guy with glasses - he was coming on to Tora pretty strong, or so she claimed. Everyone loves Tora. And then there was Fred. And then there was -
	"You know Bea? Beatrice? She's a lesbian. She's been making advances to me ... I'm not sure what to 
	Everyone loves Tora. I watched her from my bedroom window the night before she left - she was hanging out with all the friends she had made during her four-day stay at the psychiatric hospital, and they were having a chat and a smoke, but there was an unseen air of sadness hanging over them, because they knew Tora would be leaving in the morning and the ward would be a worse place without her. I saw one young woman named Mary take her aside and kiss her on the cheek several times - the two of them were out of the circle of light but I could see them 'cause they were closer to my window - and they couldn't see me 'cause my bedroom light was off and I was keeping perfectly still -
	"You're a pretty quiet person, aren't you Stephen?"
	"Yes."
	"I wish I could be quiet like you. I'm always talking on and on. I just can't keep quiet for a second."
	But Tora wasn't a lesbian, and neither was Mary, in fact Mary went on to have some similar trouble with the lesbian Beatrice because the latter was making unwanted advances towards her and she complained openly about it. I think it was slightly ironic -
	"Yes", I replied to Dad. "If I had to have a career, it would be in the arts field or the music field."
	"Any particular part of the arts field you'd want to get into?"
	"Maybe graphic design. I'd like to be one of those guys who designs ads. Or maybe - one of those guys who makes animations. Especially computer animations."
	"Yeah? Well that's something you could do. I don't know what sort of training you'd need to get into a position like that, but it wouldn't be hard to find out. I think you'd be good at that."
	"Mmm." Dad was standing beside my wheelchair in the foyer of the psychiatric ward - it was Saturday afternoon. He'd come in to bring me some plastic bags and some coat-hangers. I don't I don't know what just happened - some sort of confused uprising of positive thoughts. Where did all the hope come from? Maybe the authorities had got to my Dad. One of the doctors, perhaps, had had a word with him and injected some artificial positive vibes into his mind. In any case, the conversation we were presently having was about my future.
	"What about the music field? Are you hoping to become a professional musician with your keyboard skills?"
	"No, I was more thinking of becoming a sound technician - the guy who works the mixing desk. Or whatever. I don't know much about that field."
	"Well you could learn. I mean those little tunes you enter into the computer at home are a good start. And you've always been into mucking around with audio equipment at home - I remember some of the weird experimental stuff you used to produce on your tapes when you were younger. Which do you think you'd prefer? The music field or the graphic design field?"
	"I don't know. It depends on a lot of things. It depends on the qualifications I'd need for each one. I mean, I heard that you can't study music at university unless you learn a musical instrument up to grade 7 level. And for the graphic-design, well I don't know but it may be a bit hard to get into a course seeing as how I didn't do graphics at school, in the V.C.E."
	"Yeah." Dad looked into the wall for a few seconds, and I could see in his face that he was not the least bit discouraged by what I'd said. "You know what you should do? You should talk to them about this. You should tell them you'd like to get some information about art courses and music courses - even if they don't have the information, they could put you onto someone who does. I think they'd be happy to help you - that's what they're here for. Don't you think?
	I shifted uncomfortably in my wheelchair, suddenly aware of the back pain it was causing me. My father's words were well intentioned but I knew I could never talk to the doctors and nurses about my future. For one thing I was afraid of being sucked into that world of tertiary education which was somewhat incompatible with sitting in a wheelchair. Yes, sure enough it was possible, in theory, for a wheelchair-bound person to attend university. But it was a challenge I was not ready to face - all those buildings with stairs - all those doors to pass through - all those cramped classrooms where I'd be bumping into people whenever I reverse out from a table - all those steep inclines - would I be able to get an electric wheelchair, or not? Probably not. And what about the toilet? No, it seemed to me that I would have to make a choice between the wheelchair and the education. The education, if it happened, would be welcomed by my parents and doctors alike, especially if it meant leaving the wheelchair behind. But I was still regarding the psychiatric profession as the enemy - I didn't want to let them in on my plans. I wanted them to think I would always be in a wheelchair, and that I was happy to be disabled.
(unfinished end)