The Randomness of Rainbow Phoenix II: Confessions of a One-Legged Violinist

s u p p o r t

I'm in the bath. Immersed in the clear liquid, it gently swishes around my body, tinting my legs underneath the surface a pale shade of grey. The same water, when it meets my light umber hair, turns it to a hue of brown so dark it could be called black.

I can't take a shower, not anymore. My leg is too weak now, too frail to support my weight fully without injuring it more.

Leaning on the towel rack is a crutch.

I'm staring at it, resting my head on the side of the tub and gazing at the metallic pole with eyes that blur my surroundings. It's fuzzy, very fuzzy without my glasses, but I can see it, propped between the wall and the radiator stand and sending out a message with its own appearance.

Something is wrong with this girl, it whispered to anyone who glimpsed it. Her body can't support her anymore. Something is wrong with her.

I turned my head away and reflected on how very true the implement's silent statement was. I can feel my body slowly falling apart, bit by bit, failing me one piece at a time. A young girl trapped in a failing form.

My knee. Suddenly, without warning, I could not walk without proper support, lest I injure it more.

My stomach. Stricken down on a family vacation, spontaneously the sight or smell of food makes me ill.

My eyes. For years I had good vision, then turned six years old I rely entirely on a structure of plastic and glass to see my world.

Support. I need pills, medication, crutches, all to keep my fragile vessel moving as it should. A gel to rub into my aching knee. Antacids to soothe my panicked stomach. Glasses to warp the light into my eyes in the right way.

But just because you can't feel the pain doesn't mean nothing's wrong.

One day, something in me will fail and have no support. One day, I will be broken permanently. Whether it's soon, or later, I do not know. No one ever knows.

You never know when your breaking point is until you shatter it.

I pull the plug, crawl out of the tub, wrap myself in a robe and curl my fingers around the crutch's handle.