I do not own Me Before You.

Saw the movie yesterday. Haven't recovered yet. Book's blowing my mind too.

180 Days, Give or Take

As I lay there in the crisp white sheets with her curled into the body which could not feel her soft, loving warmth, my mind unraveled back to the time when I first met her.

Six months ago.

Excruciatingly long. Unendurably long.

Yet now, it all seemed to go by too quickly.

Not so quickly I wished to relive and relish every single miserable, quadriplegic day of that six months.

But quickly enough that I wanted to remember all my time with her in these, the last moments of my life.

Louisa Clark.

If you had told me back before the accident that I would grow to love someone like her, I would have bit back a chuckle and tried to think of a polite response.

Not that I was a bad guy necessarily.

But I liked them blonde. And leggy.

And a good dose more sophisticated and worldly than little Miss Bumblebee Tights.

If you had told me the first day I met her that she would come to pervade my entire being, I would have attempted to roll you down with my chair.

But now, now in these last moments of my life, all I wanted to do was breathe her in.

As much as I could.

Before I let her go.

To say my thoughts were black that day would be like saying a clear sky looks blue.

It is evident. It is obvious.

And cannot even begin to describe the darkness suffusing every fiber of my being on that and every day.

And every single day.

I never felt happy. I never felt good. I never felt alive.

Not anymore.

That was why I hated her from the moment my mum opened the sliding doors revealing her.

Tiptoeing. So hesitant, so unsure.

If I could walk again, I sure as hell wouldn't tiptoe.

I would run. I would leap. I would jump and strut and soar.

Hell, I'd even dance.

But here she was on perfectly good working legs and feet.

Swathed in some god-awful costume I wanted to inquire if we were on some reality TV show for mentally challenged.

That toothy, dopey grin and those big, terrified eyes.

That's why I did what I did.

Screeching and howling and making an arse of myself.

Because I wanted to scare her.

Drive her away.

My mum had hired her to keep me from attempting suicide again.

To make me do the one thing that I hated more than anything else at all.

Live.

Selfish bitch.

She didn't want me to live because it was best for me.

She wanted me to best because it was best for her.

Or thought it was.

Though how on God's Earth she would think that was beyond me.

I wanted to shame her too.

Just for that one reason.

Because she wanted me to live.

When all I wanted to do was die.

My 'Left-Footing' as Nathan called it, alarmed my newest minder but she didn't run.

She smiled.

And introduced herself.

I had the thought she might not be so easy crack as I had thought.

I would just have to try harder.

Because as insufferable as my life was, it would only be made worse by some falsely-cheery little twit smiling through her teeth and trying to convince me to live.

Live.

If that's what you could call it.

Which by only the narrowest of definition, I could.

Nathan of course, found my performance mildly amusing as always.

"You are a bad man, Mr. T. Very bad."

Good ol' Nathan. A bit of a psychopath, really.

No matter what I said or did, no matter what foul thing happened, he never flinched, never faltered, never even slipped his smile.

He also never took any of my bullshit either.

Of every living person in the entire world, I hated him the least.

Oh, I still hated him, yeah.

I hated that he could walk and use his arms.

I hated that he could feed himself and take himself to the toilet.

I hated that he had seen and cared for every single inch of my debilitated body.

With not a hint of compliant or discomfort.

He was infuriatingly even and completely unflappable.

But at least he didn't attempt to cheer me to death.

When I talked, he listened.

When I was silent, he let me be.

When I wanted to die, he said no but didn't bother to lecture me about it.

At least after the first few times anyway.

So there was Nathan.

Who wanted me to live too.

But at least he didn't gently weep at me for it.

And if I could have appreciated anything, I would have appreciated that.

So while Nathan was entertained and this L-, whatever her name tried not to faint, Mum clung to her English civility long enough for me toss in another jab.

"My brain isn't paralyzed. Yet."

God in Heaven that it were. At least then I wouldn't have to be so aware of the hideous state of my existence.

Which finally drove her from the room.

Cheers, Mum. Have a lovely, walking day.

And then there was just us.

Me, Nathan, and L- whatever her name was.

Okay, to be honest, I knew her name straight off.

Lou.

Louisa Clark.

Brave enough to withstand my Christy Brown imitation.

Mad enough to dress herself like an unhinged little pixie.

I wondered how long she would last.

Maybe an hour or two, at least.

End of the day at the most.

The sooner I sent her packing, the better off I'd be.

Mum thought she was being clever.

Hiring a young, bright sparky thing rather than the dour, scrubbed-up 'professionals'' she usually did.

She must be getting desperate. Of course she was.

Only six months left.

Until I could die.

Six long, insufferable months.

It was humiliating, it always was.

Sitting there in that chair.

Knowing he was showing her "The Folder of the Great William Traynor: A Guide to Keeping a Cripie Alive and Well for As Long As Humanly Possible".

Showing her my meds. Explaining all the little pills that kept my deplorable body marginally functional day after miserable day.

Walking her around the flat.

And of course, informing her on the importance of keeping up the cheer.

Keeping up the chatter.

And making sure I was forced to live.

Breathe.

Exist.

Bloody hell.

Awful swell of you to clean. The place was quite a sight after last night's party.

It was absolutely daft. Completely ridiculous.

After all, the place was already part mausoleum, part waiting room of death.

All those horrible pictures in my bedroom.

Set there by Mum.

To inspire me.

Inspire.

All they did was haunt.

All the things I used to be able to do, all the places I had once gone.

All the friends I'd enjoyed the company of.

They were all gone.

I had driven them away, my friends.

My girlfriend.

Because I couldn't them looking at me looking at them.

Knowing they were pitying me.

Crying for me.

Repulsed by me.

Plus, they could stand.

Walk.

Hold a drink.

Scratch their noses.

And I couldn't do any of that.

I couldn't even die.

So I drove them out, made them move on.

And Mum put up those damn pictures.

So I wouldn't forget.

As if I could.

It was all I thought about.

Everything I'd lost.

That. And death.

And not even smiley little timid Lou running the hoover or dusting the frames or wiping down the kitchen tops could fix it.

Offering to drive me around in my cripie-mobile or graciously allow me to surf the Web.

And most definitely not her bloody hot beverages.

When she finally left for the evening, I breathed a sigh of relief.

And a silent farewell to the insufferably cheery walking little pixie.

Hello to a new fandom and obsession!

Suffice it to say, this will be quite dark for a bit (you've seen/read it, yeah?). But we all know after a while, Lou starts working her magic. And it helps. A little.

Anyway, don't know if anyone's going to read this or like it but here's tryin'. Not like I can't write after watching that movie! Not if I want to be able to sleep! ;)

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