Of all the bad days in life, and Harding had had plenty, he could not believe he’d been shot. As a U.S. Marshal, he’d been well trained to perform his duties. Granted, it was his job to put away men who had nothing to lose. That was never good. But he was the best at his job. So why him? How had this happened to him?
Blinking through blurry eyes, he listened to the beep, beep, beep of the machine next to his bed in the hospital. Harding had a good mind to rip the IV out of his arm and go get the S.O.B. who’d fired a wild shot and scored a direct hit.
He wanted details as to how he could have gotten so sloppy but couldn’t seem to come up with any. It was the medication he was on. Harding wasn’t a fan of pain killers. He planned to refuse the next round when the nurse came by. Considering the fact he had to fight to stay conscious, he must be on too many.
All they did was dull his thinking.
Could he sit up? The effort didn’t produce much. He barely moved. He couldn’t force his eyes to open, and his arms felt like literal lead weights. Frustration ripped through him. For someone who didn’t sit down for more than two minutes unless he was behind the wheel, his present circumstance was infuriating.
Maybe he could call for the nurse. Nope. It was like his mouth was in cahoots with his eyes and arms. Nothing worked the way it was supposed to.
An ominous feeling settled over Harding as a question formed in the back of his mind, vying for attention. He struggled to push the question to the forefront of his thoughts. He needed to know what his brain was trying to ask.
After a few minutes of effort, it finally pushed through. He couldn’t move his arms or legs. Were painkillers responsible? Or was this going to be something permanent?
Harding railed against the idea. He would have remembered something so drastic as being paralyzed, wouldn’t he? Then again, his brain was wired to protect him. Would it hide something so important? Bury it deep?
Refusing to accept the possibility that he wouldn’t be able to move in the same way as before, he made a fist with his left hand.
Thankfully, it worked. Could he capitalize? He forced his arm to move next. Then, his right leg. Small movements were as far as he could get. He hoped this was the beginning and not the end of what he would be able to do.
Click here to read Harding’s story.