The Running Dream Read Online Free PDF

lumbering and loud, it’s easier than using crutches.
    My bed and dresser are downstairs in the family room. Instead of sleeping in the last room on the right upstairs, I’m now in the first room on the left after you come in the front door. I’m separated from the entry hall by a half wall with white balusters.
    I don’t know where they moved the couches, but I do know they did a lot of heavy lifting to set this up for me, and that I should be more appreciative than I am. It’s hard, though, because I feel like a stranger in my own house. I can’t get to the things I want, I can’t find the things I need, and I spend way too much time watching TV. The only time I feel halfway normal is when we’re at the kitchen table. It’s like seeing each other from the waist up helps us forget about the stump lurking beneath the surface.
    I also feel like a stranger to myself.
    Everything irritates me, and cheery people just make that worse.
    My friends call. They come by. They bring me plants and chocolate and get-well cards. They want to
cheer
 … 
me
 … 
up
.
    It isn’t working.
    When they’re here, I’m quiet and awkward and I can’t wait for them to leave.
    When they’re gone, I cry.
    I cry, and wish they’d come back.
    They won’t, though, and I know it.
    I probably wouldn’t either.

 
    I ’VE BEEN PUSHING THE CLOCK on my pain meds.
    Taking them early.
    Slipping in an extra when I really need it.
    I tell myself that tomorrow I’ll feel better.
    That I’ll take one less rather than one extra.
    But the only time I feel better is when the meds kick in.
    I’m afraid of the pain without them.
    Afraid of the day without them.
    Then I tell my mom I need a refill, and somehow my father gets involved.
    I hear them whispering.
    Arguing.
    I hear him make a phone call and I pray it’s to the pharmacy, but I’m pretty sure it’s not.
    I pretend to be asleep when he comes to see me, but this doesn’t stop him.
    “Jessica!” he whispers hoarsely, shaking my shoulder.
    “Hm?” I answer, acting groggy.
    He’s holding the bottle of pills. “How often do you take these?”
    “Hm?” I sit up a little. “Oh. Just when I’m supposed to,” I lie.
    “Are you sure?”
    I nod.
    He studies me.
    My conscience flinches, and he sees it.
    “The truth,” he says.
    I shrug. “I’ve taken a couple extras. Only when I really needed to.”
    He studies me a long, hard time.
    He studies the pill bottle a long, hard time.
    He and I both know there are only two pills left, and the math is easy.
    Finally he heaves a sigh and stands. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “But we’re through with these.”
    “No, wait!” I call after him, but he leaves the room without turning back.

 
    I CAN’T GET TO SLEEP .
    I’m nauseous.
    Shaky.
    Sweaty one minute, goose-bumpy the next.
    And I’m in pain.
    I cry and I moan, and when my mother comes in, I beg her to talk to my dad. “Please, Mom. They cut off my leg! Doesn’t he understand? It
hurts
.”
    She cries with me, but in the end she sides with my dad. “It’s a narcotic, honey. It’s very addictive. You don’t want to get dependent on it.”
    “But you’ve got to give me something!”
    She comes back with Tylenol.
    It does nothing for the pain.
    Or the sweats or chills.
    I feel abandoned.
    Angry.
    Raw.
    But way, way down inside, I know they’re right.

 
    I ’VE BEEN OFF THE MEDS for a few days now, which I know is good, but I’m still feeling so down. Except for Fiona, the calls have stopped. And Kaylee and her friends have found a new place to hang out.
    I spend a lot of time noticing how my purple paisley bedspread clashes with the oriental rug.
    I spend a lot of time reliving my last race.
    Wishing for my leg back.
    Crying.
    I long for my own room.
    My own room with four full walls and a door that closes.
    I’m sick of watching TV. The bookshelf is full of Mom’s favorite thrillers, but I can’t seem to get into any of them. I should be catching up on my