The concrete hit my palms first.
Then my shoulder. Then my head.
Not hard enough to black out—just hard enough to make the sky spin while fifty people stood around me like I was entertainment.
My wheelchair lay tipped on its side, one wheel still turning.
My brother Tyler stood over me, smirking like he’d finally won something.
“Stop pretending for sympathy,” he sneered.
And like the world had lost its mind, people laughed.
Nervous laughter. Cruel laughter. The kind that pretends it’s “just a joke” so nobody has to feel guilty.
I tried to push myself up, but my right leg was twisted wrong—pain sparking up my spine like electricity.
Still, nobody moved to help.
