She wakes up at 10 the next morning, the sound of radio four muted by the door and the sunlight feeling way too bright to be allowed. She lies there, still curled in a ball on her left side; a habit she’s been unable to break even when threatened by the doctors with weak bones and muscle contractures. She marvels occasionally, that it never matters how many pillows, foam supports or dressings she applies to her legs to keep them in the prescribed prone position before she goes to bed. Still each night, the little movement in her legs make a blow for independence and she ends up curled in the same position that she imagines her fist nine months of life dictated. To be honest, she can’t be arsed to even try now. Learning to ignore medical staff being one of the last of the 12 unspoken steps out of rehab.

She reaches down under the duvet, catches hold of each ankle and slips them off the bed and pushes her reluctant body into a sitting position. She stays like this for a full minute before her body slips back as if someone has rewound the video. Her head is resting on the pillow, legs remaining dangling over the side. One more minute and she’s up again, but this time she waits no more than a few second before sliding her body to the opposite side, the rumpled duvet almost covering her face.

“Bugger! Bugger! Bugger!”

She’s back up and this time reaches over to the waiting wheelchair and deftly swings her body over from the bed to the gel filled cushion and sits there staring blankly at the bed as if wondering quite how she got there.

Radio four means her dad is up, 'good' she thinks. Radio four also means she doesn’t have to sit watching the goose bumps that are already popping up over her skin until she can shower. This thought seems to strengthen her resolve and she disappears into the en suite bathroom with a new air of purpose. Emerging ten minutes later, her blonde hair dripping persistently she hesitates, then wheels to sit in front of the full-length mirror.
Michelle Phiffer she’s not.

Her hair, restored temporary to its childhood mouse by the water has been lightened to a pleasant honey blonde. Her features, which had been called ‘small’ by the bitch behind the Clarins counter, were ok. Moss green eyes, nose (overachieving to acquire buttonness) and a shapely even mouth. Her cheekbones were alright but blusher was her friend. Her eyes (too familiar to require closer morning scrutiny) left her face and dropped to her naked body. There was no doubt about it; her arms and shoulders were acquiring a bulk that had been absent a few years before, reminiscent of a competitive swimmer. The arms that had previously seen the climax of their potential as navigating her hands to pick up a cigarette and manoeuvre it to her mouth were now taut with underling muscle, her shoulders broadening, unfamiliarly. She wasn’t as bothered about this as she was to what the required exertions to her upper body were doing to her breasts. As her chest expanded her breasts seems to be retreating. The gradual realization that her addiction to the wonder bra was no longer a life choice but a necessity, pissed her off greatly. She cupped them in both hands and thrust them upwards, achieving an impressive Merchant-Ivory cleavage. Unfortunately, on letting them go then appeared to withdraw further, slightly pink from the pressure as if embarrassed by the charade.

“Bugger!”

And then there was her waist. Or lack of. She had tried to remember if, when the doctors had gently explained the ramification of spinal injury, they had ever suggested one of the major ones was that sitting down made your waist vanish without warning. In her vainer moments she couldn’t decide which was worse for a twenty five year old woman; the loss of her ability to walk or the loss of her ability to wear crop tops.
Or have her belly-button pierced.

Her stomach sagged like a leaking water-filled balloon. She pushed up against her wheels, arms straight, lifting her body away from the chair to an almost upright position. The waist came back, the stomach flattened. She lowered back herself down. Bye bye.

“Bugger!”

Her wasted legs were turning blue (anorexic super-model legs on a bad day) from sitting without clothes on in front of a mirror, feet curling inwards, toes pointing down as if gazing at the carpet they longed to touch.

“Shit and bugger!”

A new word to added to her morning vocabulary. 3 cups of coffee and a cigarette and she might be able to manage a “fuck!”