The elevator doors pop open and I begin the trek to my apartment.
“The trek” consists of a 30 foot stretch of hallway connecting the elevator to my front door.
A year ago, you couldn’t convince me that the 13 mile run I would routinely execute before work should be considered a “trek”. But that was many moons and a leg ago. Things have changed…obviously.
I clunker down the hallway, step by step. Each step is followed the sound of my crutches stabbing the ground.
“Clink! Clink! Clink!” The sound resonates throughout the hallway.
“Clink! Clink! Clink!” – the neighbors mute their televisions.
“Clink! Clink! Clink!” – Who on earth is hammering steel at this hour?!
“Clink! Clink! Clink!” – Oh…Nick must be home.
I reach the front door, jostling my keys in search of the right one. They fall to the ground.
I rest my crutches against a nearby wall and balancing on my ever dependent, “good” leg – I bend down to grab them.
Suddenly, the crutches fall to the ground. I stand…hop over, reach down to grab them, and hoist myself up.
I reach back into my pocket for my keys…and begin the process all over again.
The search for the key that will open the door continues. Why the hell do I have so many damned keys, anyway?
I find it. I pinch the key and extend towards the slot in the doorknob. However, before I can connect…I drop the keys.
…and begin the process all over again.
Life. This is life. This is what I lived for? This is why I refused to die that night? This?
You’re god damned right…