Chapter Fifteen: Struggle

When her alarm clock went off, blaring that horridly obnoxious beeping, the first thing Meg realized was that she hurt. The second thing she realized was that she was so tired she could barely make her eyes creak open.

Flailing for the snooze button, she slapped it twice for good measure, and closed her eyes in the hopes of catching just a few more minutes of sleep... but even though she was plum tuckered out, she couldn't switch her brain off again.

In the end, she put on her glasses and forced her exhausted body to roll off the bed.

Her back and chest and arms all screamed in unison and she wheezed, freezing for a moment, trying to breathe.

She waited until the pain faded before tiredly dragged herself over to her closet using her arms. Lunging upright, she snagged the knob and dragged the slatted white door open. Determined to get it at least part of the way finished, she ignored the agony in her muscles and manually adjusted her legs so she wouldn't bend the wrong way.

All of this took up energy she didn't really have, so she stopped to catch her breath.

This is so hard, she mentally complained. I don't know if I can do this every day...

She didn't allow her mind even a moment to start feeling sorry for herself.

She didn't have that luxury anymore.

Using her grip on the closet door, she hoisted her upper torso as high as she possibly could and lunged for one of her favorite pink t-shirts. It took her a few lunges, but she eventually snagged it and dragged it off the hanger. She landed on her butt with a thud, but she was mildly surprised when her hat came down with it.

Apparently, either her mother or her father had put it on the hanger with this very shirt.

She looked at the tattered jeans dangling from the other hangers, then glanced down at the skirt, black shoes, and white stockings she hadn't even managed to get off the previous evening. She gave a mental shrug before putting her hat on and draping the pink t-shirt around her legs.

She'd only worn the skirt and socks once, so she figured they had a good two more days of use in them before they needed to be washed, but still, jeans really were going to take too much time. Letting out a sigh, Meg crawled her way over to her dresser and opened the first drawer, patting around for her wallet and some clean underwear.

Once she'd snagged them, she slid her hand beneath the dresser and pulled out a small padlocked safe.

All of the savings from her odd jobs over the years were stashed in here, around three thousand dollars, total. Twisting the combination, she opened the box and withdrew a good two hundred dollars, sliding the bills into her wallet before locking the safe and pushing it into the farthest reaches of her dresser.

She had everything she needed aside from her backpack.

She looked around, but spotted it beneath her bed and took a second to drag it out, sliding the straps across her shoulders; then she balled her underwear into a fist and stuck her wallet between her teeth, mentally fortifying herself to make her way to the bathroom and use it like a regular person before taking a bath.

At the very least, she had gotten lucky in this regard since she still had complete control over her bladder and her other more personal bodily functions.

According to the doctors in the hospital, that meant she didn't have to... well, go... in a bag attached to her body. She was relieved about that more than anything else since she didn't know if she would have ever been able to handle the shame of going to the bathroom anywhere but a toilet.

The very thought was mortifying and gross.

The trip to the bathroom felt like a journey of a thousand miles, but she made it even though it took her more effort than she wanted to admit. She wasted little time getting undressed, setting all of her clothes on top of the toilet seat before unhooking her bra. After that, she managed to get her usual routine going of toilet and teeth brushing over with, but next came the hard part: bathing.

Once the tub was full of water, she pulled herself in and relaxed, lazing for a good ten minutes. The heat made her sore muscles and bruised skin feel a little bit better, but she knew she couldn't relax for too long, so she pulled herself forward, splashed her face and hair, and grabbed some soap and shampoo off the little alcove in the wall. She took her time washing her hair, and made sure to scrub every part of her body, but once she was finished, she let the water drain out of the tub completely and turned the shower on so she could fully rinse herself off.

When she rinsed the lather off, she did the usual conditioner routine.

Once she was clean, she crawled out of the bathtub and snagged one of the towels from the good chunk of time was wasted trying to get herself dry and dressed. She smoothed her shirt, tugged her beanie down over her hair, tucked her wallet into her backpack, and slid the backpack over her shoulder

Then came the hardest part; crawling her way downstairs to where her chair was.

By the time she made it and crawled in, the windows were emanating dark blue light; she tiredly wheeled herself to the kitchen, wanting a drink of water, but she was stymied since she couldn't reach the high cabinet or even the sink.

She sighed balefully, then glanced at the clock and jumped in shock since it had taken three and a half hours just to get out of bed and get ready for school. She'd gotten up at three thirty and it was now six forty-five! If she didn't hurry, she would be late.

Just as she was thinking it, Chris came thundering down the stairs, but just as he passed the kitchen, he paused and looked at her.

"Meg, it's time for school," he said, drawing her eye. "We should get going. Mom and Dad are sleeping in today since the reporters won't be coming back."

Meg nodded wordlessly and wheeled herself towards the front door, but when Chris threw it open, instead of running outside like she was expecting him to, he froze. She stared at his confused expression for a second, then peered around him.

An old, rusty black pickup truck was sitting parked in their driveway behind their family's red sedan, and behind the wheel was none other than Michael Pulaski himself. When they made unexpected eye contact, he immediately got out and shut the door.

"Chop chop, Beanie Girl," he rasped, voice slightly hoarse. "Hurry up."

Confused, Meg rolled towards the truck, but when she came to a halt and reached for the handle, she felt two large hands sliding beneath her arms. She let out a silent gasp as she was lifted clean out of the chair and pulled against his chest; shifting her weight and holding her with one arm, he bent down and grabbed the wheelchair, folding it up.

He walked around to the back of the vehicle and put it in, then opened the passenger door and set her down with an amount of care that she wouldn't have thought a guy like him could show. He even buckled her seat belt.

Meg looked at the front door, where Chris was standing with his mouth open, as Mike got into the driver's seat and keyed the ignition. Then, they were backing out, and he drove down Spooner Street, away from the little yellow house with its red trim and green shingles. This all felt surreal to her, as if it were some strange dream she'd landed in.

He had really come to pick her up in his truck.

But why?

Why would he go so far?

Meg's hands fisted in her skirt, since she really didn't have any answers.

Suddenly, he swerved and pulled over on the side of the road, making her heart jump; she looked out the window to see that they were sitting on a side street, but when his hand touched the side of her head, she clenched her teeth.

She was scared.

Scared of what he was doing... of what he could do if he wanted.

His fingers trailed along her temple, down across her cheek... but then, he pulled back.

"Who hit you?"

Meg paused, since his tone was calm and not what she'd been expecting. She tentatively glanced at him to see him staring straight ahead with both hands on the steering wheel, amber eyes burning holes in the pavement.

She looked around for something to write with, since her pad was beneath the cushion of her wheelchair, and when he noticed he pulled his phone out of his pocket and did something on it before holding it out to her. Meg saw a memo pad already open and quickly texted her response before holding it up.

'Nobody hit me.'

His face blackened into a scowl.

"Don't lie to me," he said coldly. "You have a black eye and a bruise the size of a fist."

Meg was confused about that until she remembered Peter swerving their car the previous morning and sending her head into the window hard enough to crack the safety glass. She instantly winced since she was sure she probably looked pretty roughed up.

She texted the reply and held it up.

'I wasn't hit by anyone. My dad pulled another prank and swerved the car yesterday morning. The bruise is probably from when I hit my head on the window.'

His expression didn't change.

"Were you sitting in the back seat?" he asked. "Right side?"

Meg blinked, but when she nodded, his eyes narrowed.

Without another word, he keyed the ignition and drove off a little bit faster, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles were bone white. The trip to school was quiet, save for the low hum of the engine.

Mike kept his eyes forward until they made it to the parking lot.

He got out after killing the engine and pocketed his keys, heading around to the back of it and dragging her chair out. Relief graced her tired limbs when he opened the door and pulled her out yet again, holding her so effortlessly that she actually felt light for once.

He set her down in the chair, and held out his hand; she stared at it, puzzled, until she remembered that she was holding his phone and promptly gave it back. People all over the parking lot were staring at them, and a great deal of students were muttering.

The muttering increased when Mike gripped the handles of her chair and pushed her towards the front entrance. The early morning air was chilly; students began to pour through the school doors. Some walked in groups, chatting with each other, while others headed off on their own, speeding and jostling in every direction.

Meg leaned back and let her head flop, staring up at Mike.

His face was stony as ever, but his head was held high, and his eyes were fierce.

She wondered what could have possessed a guy like him to pay any sort of attention to a person like her. She wondered why he was still here, doing as he said he would, when he didn't even like her. She wondered why he'd faked a kiss, why he was escorting her to and from school... why he'd go so far.

His behavior and his actions didn't coincide.

After a few seconds, he noticed her stare and looked down, raising an eyebrow.

But Meg didn't look away.

Even as she looked him right in the eyes, she wondered about him, wondered why that burning gaze was so intense, why he radiated such a threatening aura even when he was helping her. She wanted to know, but was to afraid to ask.

All she could do was look at him.

His brows furrowed.

"Stop staring," he ordered, lifting his eyes with a tight mouth. "It's annoying."

Meg tiredly closed her eyes for the rest of the trip to class.