Chapter 3: They're All Pitying You

Emily's POV

Two months after surgery, I'm standing at the gates of Millbrook High, clutching my crutch handle so tightly my knuckles have gone white. The heavy brace around my left leg feels like an anchor dragging me down. Students stream past me, their voices mixing into morning chatter, but every few seconds someone glances my way and conversations pause.

"Look, isn't that the girl who fell down the stairs?"

"I heard her leg was broken so badly she'll limp for the rest of her life."

"Shit, that's rough. So young and already crippled."

Each word hits me like a slap. My palms are sweating against the crutch handle. I want to turn around, run back home, and hide in my room forever. But Mom's voice echoes in my head: I have to be strong, I have to prove I'm still normal.

The autumn sunlight bathes the campus in golden warmth, making everything look perfect. Everything except me, standing here like some broken thing that doesn't belong.

The hallways feel endless. Every step with my crutch echoes off the lockers, announcing my presence to anyone within hearing range. By the time I reach my first class, my underarms are sore and my good leg is already tired.

When the bell rings for gym class, my stomach drops. I make my way to the gymnasium, where my classmates are already warming up on the basketball court. Sneakers squeak against polished wood. Basketballs bounce in steady rhythm. Kids laugh like they don't have to think about balance or pain.

I settle onto the bleachers like a piece of forgotten equipment.

"Emily, just rest there and stay safe," the gym teacher calls out without really looking at me.

"Hey coach, could I sit with Emily for a bit? She might get bored by herself," David's voice rings out across the gym.

The teacher nods approvingly. "David's such a good brother."

David walks over with that easy grace that makes everyone watch him. Other students look at us with something like envy. What a caring stepbrother, taking time away from sports to keep his injured sister company.

He sits down beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. To everyone else, it probably looks like a touching scene.

"See that?" he says, his voice so low only I can hear. "They're all pitying you."

"What?"

"You're worthless now, Emily. Before, at least you could run and jump like everyone else. Now what? You just sit here watching other people live their lives."

My hands start trembling. The crutch slides off my lap and clatters against the bleacher steps, the sound sharp and embarrassing in the echoing gymnasium.

"Emily, you dropped your crutch. Let me get that for you," David says, his voice suddenly warm and concerned, loud enough for others to hear.

He bends down to retrieve it, and as he hands it back to me, he leans close to my ear. "Remember this. You can only depend on me now. Without me, you're nothing."

A week later, I'm back in that sterile medical center room that smells like disinfectant and broken dreams. The X-rays hang on the light box, showing the metal hardware holding my leg together.

"The healing is progressing well, but..." Dr. Patterson pauses, and I know nothing good ever follows that word.

"But what?" Mom asks, her voice tight.

"The left leg will be approximately two centimeters shorter than the right, and due to nerve damage, she won't be able to participate in high-impact activities going forward."

The world tilts sideways. Blood rushes in my ears like ocean waves.

"Can I still dance?" The question comes out as barely a whisper.

The doctor hesitates. "I'm afraid not, Emily. Ballet requires perfect balance and leg strength. With your condition..."

"What about regular dancing? Social dancing?"

"I'd recommend focusing your interests on other areas. Music, perhaps. Or art."

Since I was five years old, I've dreamed of being a ballet dancer. Mom worked double shifts at the diner to pay for dance classes. My room is covered with posters of ballerinas in mid-leap, their bodies defying gravity with impossible grace.

Now all of that crumbles to dust.

The car ride home passes in crushing silence. Mom starts to say something comforting several times, but the words die before reaching her lips. David sits in the passenger seat, watching me through the rearview mirror. There's something in his eyes I can't quite read, but it makes my skin crawl.

David observes Emily's devastated expression through the rearview mirror, and twisted satisfaction blooms in his chest. Seeing her so completely broken fills him with excitement he's never experienced before.

This is exactly what he wanted. To make her utterly dependent on him, to ensure she'll never be able to leave him. The more she suffers, the more she'll need his "care." The more damaged she becomes, the less likely anyone else will want her. Though guilt gnaws at him somewhere deep down, from now on, Emily truly belongs to him.

That evening, we sit around the dining room table where Mom has laid out a carefully prepared dinner. Everyone's trying so hard to maintain normal family atmosphere.

"Emily, the doctor said you're recovering well. That's good news," Judge Richard says with his usual authority.

"Yeah, we need to focus on the positive stuff," Mom agrees quickly.

"Emily's always been strong, haven't you?" David looks at me expectantly, like he's waiting for me to play my part in this performance.

"I want to go to my room and rest."

"Emily, you haven't finished eating..."

"I'm not hungry."

Mom's eyes start to redden. "Emily, I know you're upset, but we're all trying to adjust to our new life. Richard and David have been so good to us. You can't keep acting like this..."

"Emily, I know this period has been difficult for you, but family members support each other," Richard says in his courtroom voice.

"That's right, Emily. We'll always be here for you," David adds.

They make it sound so noble, like I should be grateful for all of this. But no one asks what I want. No one really cares how I feel. I'm like an actor forced to perform in someone else's script, expected to follow lines I never agreed to say.

Late that night, I sit on the edge of my bed in the dim glow of my nightlight. The ballet posters on my walls look almost mocking in the darkness. I can't wear those beautiful leotards and tights anymore, can't imagine my body moving with that fluid grace I used to dream about.

I look down at my left leg, still wrapped in its protective brace, and trace my fingers along the scar that's already forming. I try to remember what it felt like when both my legs were strong and whole, when I could leap and spin without thinking about balance or pain.

I bite down on my pillow to muffle the sound and let the tears come. This is my nightly ritual now. During the day, I have to be strong, have to appear like I'm "adjusting well." But only in the deep quiet of night can I release the real pain.

Tears soak into the pillowcase as I remember the doctor telling me I'll never dance again, the moment when my heart shattered into a thousand pieces.