Yesterday’s daily prompt was as follows:

Write a story about yourself from the perspective of an object, thing, animal, or another person.

My first thoughts were, how great an idea it was, though slightly random. At the same time, I thought what on earth will I pick, and then I had my light-bulb moment.

If my story is good enough, you will be able to guess from whose, or what perspective it is written.

We’ve been through all sorts together, you and me. I’ve been to your graduation, University, house moves, and all kinds of social events: weddings, ceilidhs, meals out and even dates. I’ve felt you struggle to get me from place to place, but seen your determination not to be beaten. We’ve met many strangers, you and me, when they have stopped to push me so that you can have a break.

We’ve been in all kinds of scrapes, like the time you tried to make the kerb and fell off the bus, or the time at university we went down the little steps instead of the ramp because you were exhausted and not looking where you were going (neat stunt, that!). Or the time we fell into a pothole and you tumbled out. I watched you wince, and think about struggling back up before those kind, good looking men can to help you, and the departmental disability co-ordinator saw us, clocked what happened, and took us up to her office for a warm cuppa and a chat to help us both get over the shock.

There was one such scrape I will never forget though… when you went up the incline in the pavement, and you were not strong enough so you very quickly rolled back down it and flipped out of me, backwards, head first, cutting your head, just stopping at the point before you would have split your head open. I heard you pray that you would not split your head, and that you would stay conscious. I felt your fear that your bag would get stolen when you were on the ground. We both saw the car that stopped suddenly and awkwardly on the main road because of the way you fell out, and, though shocked themselves, helped you up, together with a mother and a child, and into me again. I felt your relief as you crawled along the pavement towards home, though with the mother of all headaches and a sense of dread knowing that you would have to be a part of ‘Friday Night at A&E’. As it turned out, you were fine, though unable to wash your hair for a few days, and chastened at a doctors ‘Reading of the Riot Act’ for being alone when you fell.

You lost confidence after that. Although, it had become harder and harder to move me on your own. Not to mention exhausting to go tiny distances, and the greater sense of vulnerability you felt when requesting help from strangers.  I heard your parent when they said something like: “why won’t you propel yourself anymore? You used to go everywhere by yourself, and have strong arms”. I heard you half sigh, half groan inwards, and stammer out an explanation, all the while feeling guilty for ‘giving up’ as the parent put it. “It’s so tiring,” you said. Then you said something like “I just don’t have the energy anymore, and it’s hard to get around [where I live] because of how steep the hills are, and I end up asking strangers for help more frequently than you might think, and I lost my confidence when I fell, worrying that the next time I would split my head open for real… and then where would I be?” I don’t remember what your parent replied. I was too busy feeling your hurt because you thought they didn’t see how hard you were trying to manage me, and everything else.

I was there when you tried to explain to the lovely, young physiotherapist how difficult it was getting to get around, both inside and out, and felt for you when they said you might not be needy enough to qualify, until your Companion told you that you should tell them the whole story, of how there were times in the night you were so tired you crawled to the bathroom, as you couldn’t get your legs to support you as you used your walking frame indoors, and how many times a day you fell. Then you told them everything; how your handbag had got stolen from your walking frame, and how you had to ask strangers for help when you were with me, and how your consultant had said your joints were deteriorating, because of where the pain was, and just how bad it was…

The physiotherapist went to see someone, who agreed with her, that you were indeed entitled to one of those new-fangled ones with a motor, that I was not helpful enough to you. It felt like the end of an era now. Eventually, I went to live in The Cupboard by the Front Door. I still see you when you have to travel by car to social occasions, events, or if you can’t get a big enough special taxi to fit the Newer Model.

I am feeling especially sad, because I know my time will be at an end one day soon. I was with you when you went to see Occupational Terrorist about a New Version of me, as I am falling apart. I hope the new one serves you well, once you have saved up for it. We’ve had some right adventures, you and I, too many to fit into this space. I am off to Cupboard by the Front Door now, as you are now safely sat in The One with the Motor. Oh, by the way, have you lot guessed what I am yet?

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