His Precious Treasure

His Precious Treasure is rated PG-13 for brief violence.
This excerpt is approx. 750 words

“I’m never going to walk again.” Kimmy said avoiding Lee’s eyes. She couldn’t let him see her pain. She must be strong. The sun set, shooting its last brilliant rays through the few clouds, giving a peaceful evening glow to her birthday. Kimmy watched the sunset paint the mountains beneath varying hues of orange and purple.


Lee folded his arms in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?”

Kimmy shifted uneasily in her chair her long auburn hair falling over her shoulder. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“But the therapist . . . she said that there has been improvement.” Lee cocked his head as if to claim his twenty-one years of experience a wealth of knowledge.

Kimmy dropped her gaze to her hands. The evening had started so wonderfully. She had planned and waited almost a week for this perfect setting on the back porch to share this news, including her new shirt of soft blues and light chocolate brown jeans. It wasn’t going well.

“The therapist isn’t a doctor. Dr. Buzzy, the quack, referred her. For all we know her license is as squeaky clean as his,” Kimmy scoffed.

“Maybe your folks should take you for a second opinion.” Lee looked like a scared jackrabbit.

“A second opinion? Dr. Mason is the second opinion. He is recognized as the best in his field.”

“Every doctor makes mistakes. Maybe . . .”

“Dr. Buzzy made the mistake! And I’m the one that gets to pay for it. Maybe you think I asked for this?” Kimmy asked in disdain, indicating her wheelchair.

“I didn’t mean . . .”

“What did you mean?” Her hand settled close to the empty pitcher on the table beside her, her mother’s best.

Lee shook his head. “What about our plans? Are you just going to throw them away?”

His lack of support angered Kimmy. She needed to release her frustrations. Almost without thought she reached for a glass of lemonade but stopped, her hand resting against the nearly empty crystal pitcher.

“I haven’t changed the plan Lee. Have you?”

“You’ve got to be kidding!” He stood, stepping away from her. “Look at you. You aren’t going anywhere.”

Kimmy huffed in frustration. His expression seemed cold almost distant, less supportive somehow. She wanted to tell him she loved him even if it meant from her wheelchair the rest of her life. Wasn’t that enough?

“Lee, I haven’t lied to you. As soon as we knew I might not walk again, I told you. Dr. Mason has monitored my nominal improvement since then. I’ve worked hard. Last week he stated his findings before the judge in my case against Dr. Buzzy. I’m not going to get better. This is the best it’s going to get.”

“What you said was that you might be in a wheelchair. You didn’t mention anything about forever,” Lee argued.

“I’ve shared every update with you. I never said I was going to get out of this chair. You assumed when you thought this was temporary. I still love you. We can change our dreams to fit. We can still get married,” Kimmy said, trying to rein in her frustration.

“What about all the things we were going to do, places we want to see? Don’t you want to walk on the beach with me?” Lee’s positive balloon of support over the past four years quickly deflated.

“It’s not the end of the world. We can still do some of those things.”

“From a wheelchair? Not likely,” Lee huffed.

“You aren’t in this chair. I am. You do, I’ll watch and cheer you on.”

“You’re not a cheerleader.”

Kimmy’s world cracked. Not a cheerleader? She was the head cheerleader at the local high school! Or was going to be . . . before the accident.

“Lee,” her words came out sounding strained. “Don’t you love me? I’m the same girl. I haven’t changed.”

“You’re not the same Kimmy. We’re not the same.” Lee stepped closer to the screen door and his exit route before turning back to face her. “Maybe it isn’t the end of the world, but it has to be the end of us. I don’t want a wife in a wheelchair. I’m sorry.”

Lee opened the screen door, making his escape. The front door slammed behind him.

Kimmy grasped the nearest thing, throwing the pitcher at Lee’s retreating form. “Son of a bitch!” The pitcher hit the doorframe, shattering.