10 | in which he orders pizza

I am waiting for the day when I will be able to look at him,

And smile,

Because I'll be stronger than he ever thought I was.

Because I survived.

.\.|./.

Ryan Falls

|in which he orders pizza|

Maybe people are right — I have gone crazy.

Not only have I developed a strange peace with my injuries, but I'm perfectly happy being stuck in bed. It gives me an excuse to not go out, and though I hate the trouble I'm causing Olivia, I could get used to being stuck indoors for a lifetime.

One thing I am sick of is Olivia's terrible cooking. Not to be ungrateful or anything, but the amount of water she adds into everything is insane. I'm pretty sure the girl even adds water to French fries. Why else would the potato sticks be that soggy?

I don't say a thing to her, not wanting her to feel unappreciated. With work and her boyfriend and managing her own life, Olivia is already doing too much for me. The last I want to do is seem ungrateful, especially since she's cooking for me and still taking me to my doctor's appointments.

"I might not be able to come over tomorrow," she says to me, pulling her hair back into a ponytail. "You sure you'll be okay on your own? I can ask Ted to check up on you."

"I'll be fine, Olive, don't worry about it. I'm better now."

It's the truth, I'm much better. Although my leg still feels like a boulder has been tied to it and is weighing me down, not to mention the continuous pinprick feeling that I am beginning to get used to. Yes, it sucks that I haven't been able to bathe properly in a week, but the crutches allow me to go to the bathroom on my own when I need to.

At least I'm not peeing in bed.

Thinking about the up-side of things does help. When my therapist first told me to 'think of all the good things in life' and 'be positive', I wanted to rip his walrus mustache off. Now that I think about it, being miserable isn't really any good after all.

"Ted won't mind," Olivia says, looking embarrassed.

She hates having to leave me alone, but I hate that she feels like she shouldn't. I can take care of myself. Always have.

"I know, but I mind him driving all the way here to just ask me how I'm doing, when my answer will be the same — I'm fine!"

My grin doesn't convince her, but she sighs nonetheless.

"Okay. But you better keep your phone on. I'll be calling every hour to check up on you." She points a finger at me and narrows her eyes like she suspects me to do God-knows-what.

I want to laugh. The worst thing I could possibly do in my current state is masturbate. Honestly, even that sucks.

One, because I'm right-handed, and with my wrist broken and in a cast, things just aren't as easy as they used to be.

Two, because I can't really clean myself, and smelling like I just fucked myself isn't a good idea, especially when the only two people seeing me these days are my sister and her boyfriend.

So, yeah, even masturbation is a big no-no.

I lay in bed like a king — an incapacitated king at that — while Olivia grabs her purse and coat and heads over to the door.

"Take care, Ry," she calls over her shoulder.

I just smile and wave, sighing when she's gone. I lean back in my pillows, wishing I could actually tell her how much everything she's doing means to me. Never in my life did I think I would have someone like her around.

Dad was never a part of my life for as long as I can remember, and mom wanted nothing more than to get up and leave. I don't know why she even let me hang out her house when she clearly hated every fiber of my existence. Maybe it was the child support that she got from dad because of me that made her do that. Why else would she refuse to look at me for days and still give me a room to sleep?

All those times I woke up screaming in the middle of the night, all she had to say was 'can't you shut up?' At first, I'd wished she'd pull me into her arms and hold me to her chest until the panic attack ended, but after the first few years, I'd bury my face in the pillow to stifle the sobs and hope she won't wake up.

And as soon as I was old enough to be on my own, I got up and left. I took nothing, no clothes, no money, not even a phone number. I didn't want any of my parents' charity. Things still worked out well enough, I guess. At least I'm not homeless and starving.

Thanks to my job at Kobuk. I mean, sure, I can't go to work in this state and don't have to see Mark's pissy face, but I have enough money to last me a few weeks. Besides, I have a backup job that pays well enough. I'll just have to use that money for food instead of saving up for my college tuition. Who would have thought freelancing would be the thing for me? Nobody, that's who. Nobody except my English teacher.

'You can really make this work,' the woman had told me, handing me back the paper of the only subject I ever got an A in. She had been the one to suggest I drop my resume around in case anyone wants freelance writers. I'm not good with fiction, but nonfiction writing turned out to be the only thing in life I could actually stick with.

So I did.

I turn on my laptop again, opening my website. Thanks to the injuries and all the free time that comes with them, I have been able to catch up with almost all of my projects.

Most of the work is writing papers for students who can't figure out how to avoid plagiarism. My personal trick is simple — don't copy.

Other times it's writing articles for people either too busy or too lazy to work for the money they're getting. They pay me to write their speeches and addresses, and sometimes even blog posts, and publish them under their own names. The only rule for this job that I have to follow, is keeping my mouth shut.

I get paid for spending my nights in front of a laptop screen, they get the credit for writing 'such great work'. It's a win-win. Life is good.

Hunger begins to take a toll on me, and I decide to order pizza. I'm pretty sure Olivia left some leftovers in the refrigerator, but her cooking has made me sick enough as it is. I wonder how Ted puts up with it. That explains why he decided to be the one who always makes them lunch.

"Your order will be there in twenty minutes," the boy on the phone says after I've told him all the stuff I want on my pizza. Basically everything except cardamon cookies and leather. I'm in such a mood for junk food that he could give me slices of cheese and I'd devour it without a doubt.

The doorbell rings, and I force myself out of bed, ignoring the pain searing through my entire body.

One thing I didn't consider before I ordered pizza, was how the hell I'm going to make it all the way to my door and get the pizza. With one hand broken, and the other used to hold the crutches, it seems near to impossible to be able to hold the box of pizza and the bottle of coke all in one hand.

If the pizza guy was a nice person, he would probably be willing to help me back into bed. Too bad it's not a nice guy. Too bad it's not a guy at all.

As tempting as it may be, I refuse to ask the bubble-gum chewing delivery girl to 'tuck me back into bed'. Handing me the pizza, she looks like she'd be more than happy to do that — and maybe even stay in bed with me — but I'm not looking forward to it.

"Keep the change," I say, handing her the money and trying to balance myself on the crutches as well as hold the pizza and coke steady.

"Would you like some help?" the delivery girl asks, batting her eyelashes at me as she stuffs the money into the pocket of a jacket that looks too small for her.

"No, thank you."

It's probably the cool dismissal in my tone combined with the narrowing of my eyes that offends her, because she spins around, her high ponytail slashing through the air like she wants it to slap me across the face.

Shaking my head and sighing, I attempt to use my bandaged wrist to close the door. Unfortunately, despite all my attempts to not mess something up, the coke bottle slips out from under my arm and rolls down the three steps in front of my house and into the yard.

Now, if I was smart, I'd probably be leaving the bottle, get back in bed and enjoy my pizza. But apparently, I'm not smart, because I decide to use my crutches to help me reach the bottle.

Big mistake on my part.

Using my bandaged right arm, I extend the crutch towards the bottle, leaning my left elbow against the wall while the pizza stays perched gingerly in my left hand. Before I know it, I've lost my balance, my leg giving out from under me. The pizza flies out of my hand, landing out of my sight.

Why?

Because I'm already tumbling down the steps.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

.\.|./.

A/N: Fridays mean updates ;) Saturdays too. And Sundays? I don't know. Maybe I should update every day and quit real life. Unfortunately, that isn't really possible -- as tempting as that may be -- but I'm only going to be busier starting next month. Let's hope December passes okay <3