SeveredWing

Chapter 23 New Routine At 6:30am, Shai exits her bedroom ready to take on whatever obstacles Monday may put in her path. She is dressed and ready for her first round of physical therapy this morning. As per her PT notes, she is wearing clean, comfortable clothing that is breathable and soft to the touch: black yoga pants, a much-needed sports bra, and a teal v-neck t-shirt. Her hair is pinned up and back with numerous barrettes, combs, and bobby pins, but, aggravatingly, they still cannot contain the loose curls sprouting in all directions. She'd be lying to herself if she didn't admit she was a bit nervous about her new routine. Xander made the stretches look so effortless, but he is an able-bodied man who does these demonstrations for a living. She is a woman with a bruised and battered tailbone who is performing these exercises without the assistance and guidance of her physical therapist. Still, between Xander's repetitive instructions and her extensive note-taking, she should

Chapter 22 Burning Embers, Flying Sparks Shai wakes early on Sunday in good cheer, the dreamy threads of sleep broken by her high spirits. She clambers over her crumpled duvet and mounds of pillows in her exuberancy to begin her day and instantly regrets it. Pain erupts in her lower spine like a long dormant volcano exploding rock and fire into the atmosphere. Forced to observe greater restraint, she sits up, turns on the lamp, and swings her legs over the side of the bed. Her body wishes nothing more than to express her happiness by springing to her feet and proceeding to her bathroom with a bounce in her step and a twinkle in her eye. But due to the nature of her condition, she will sadly have to forgo the lively pace and settle for a slow progression. There are several elements influencing her mood this morning. The brand new easel standing prominently in her room, the beech wood's pale cream colour enriched by the oil finish. The final sketch of her bouquet propped against the

Chapter 21 Hearth and Home Shai's elation at sleeping soundly through the night into Saturday's mid morning is immediately eclipsed by the timpani section of hell's orchestra pounding away on either side of her head. She curls into a ball, pulls the duvet over her head, and curses her low tolerance to alcohol. She was so looking forward to today, like a child anticipating Santa's bounty on Christmas morning. Her new easel and art supplies are scheduled to be delivered this afternoon. Now she must deal with a host of hangover symptoms interfering with her plans. She makes a mental note to exercise better restraint when drinking with Dr. Moreau and the general and crawls from the security of her bed. She flicks on the light switch in the bathroom and cringes as the LED bulbs blare through their lampshades from either side of the mirror. She fumbles for a wash cloth from the glass cabinet and walks over to the sink to vigorously wash her face. Once finished, she continues on with the