Solo At Home Rehabilitation

[Wart]

Summer 34th 513AV

1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... 8... 9... 10.

Wart breathed out slowly letting her hands slide down from the wall and to her sides. With a wince she forced herself away from her leaning position against it and stood straight on her own.

1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... 8... 9... 10.

The out breath was quicker this time, the breaths fallowing more heavy. She brought herself carefully down into the chair behind her. The movement made her knees protest but she gritted her teeth and counted again.

1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... 8... 9... 10... 11... 12... 13... 14... 15... 16... 17... 18... 19... 20.

Now it was more of an aggravated sigh. That it would take this much effort to even sit up in a chair was unthinkable. However she was done for the moment, and could return to the idle comfort that was her bed.

Her hand limply gripped at her hair as she shuffled back to it. This was the second day of these petty exercises since she'd been allowed to leave the infirmary. Allowed, of course, meaning she shouted down the doctor until he became fed up and let her go. She should have been back there, resting, recovering, going through whatever routines and treatments were standard for someone in a case like hers.

A case like hers. Waking up in a strange place after almost an entire year of unconsciousness. It still made her sick to the stomach, just thinking about it. She'd missed so much. So much work, so much time that could have been spent drawing, painting, training, living. Zeltiva was a whole different world to her now. New people. New circumstances. Gods, she still wasn't caught up with what was going on with the petching government. Sure, she'd never paid much attention to other people and authorities like that before, but it wasn't anything like this.

Hell she was lucky her house was even there still when she finally came back to it.

[Wart]

A nurse had offered to walk her home. But, like the rest of their services, Wart refused it. She didn't want help, she didn't want pity, she wanted nothing but to move on and get back to work.

Unfortunately she had no choice but to accept the cane.

It was simple, just a bit of wood with a handle on the top. At first she tried to turn it away, but it only took a few steps to realize that she didn't have the strength to walk on her own, let alone try to make it all the way to her house.

It was an unfortunate and resented necessity, that cane. It made her look weak. Of course she was weak, no denying that, but she didn't want to look it.

Even with the assistance the route took far longer than it normally would have. There were several times when Wart was forced to stop for a moment and lean against a building. Through gritted teeth she would curse everything in sight, the road, the Gods, the city, the stupid piece of wood in her hand... The grip her hand managed on her hair was nearly enough to rip it out when she finally reached her home.


While at least it was still standing, there were plenty of signs that it had been unoccupied for a long while. Pushed against one wall was a pile of leaves and assorted small bits of trash, likely brought and left by strong winds at some point. Dirt had gathered at the door, weeds had grown unchecked nearby. A window had even been cracked, perhaps a victim of violent weather or some dumb kids. All of it was bearable though. The worst part of it was the door.

Having sat unopened for so long, the door had grown stiff, and seemed to have been warped by rain at some point. Wart threw her cane down to side and breathed out heavily, rubbing her hands together. After a stupid struggle of a walk there, she was determined for this to be her moment of redemption.

After a fifteen minutes of pulling and yanking at it, the door remained mockingly still.

All strength spent, Wart sat on the step, elbows on her knees and hands tight in her hair.

Of all of the doors "-in this whole petching world YOU ARE THE MOST PETCHING WORTHLESS YOU PIECE OF PETCHING SHYKE!" With a steaming grimace she turned and shoved at the door... And with a loathsome creek it opened.

In all of her emotional effort, she'd forgotten that her door opened inwards, not out.

[Wart]

Wart wasn't a very materialistic type. Coming right down to it, she lived pretty simply. Her house wasn't much more furnished than it was when she first moved in. She had only the real necessities when it came to clothes and food. In fact, the state of her possessions was one of the last things she was worried about when she realized the length of time she had been away.

Her house could have been smashed in and burned. Her furniture could have been stolen. The entire foundation could have been cracked and ruined. Her other clothes could have been missing. Sure it'd be an inconvenience and she'd have her round of irate cursing, but she would have moved on. Found some place to stay, an inn even. Went and found new things and ways to repair what she could.

There was one thing, however, she couldn't bare to lose. The one edging concern in the back of her mind, pushed desperately away out of her stream of thought as she sat in the infirmary, as she hobbled home. Once she entered that God forsaken door, though, there was no stopping them from flooding. The cane on the ground she ran forward with a strength fueled only by worry and adrenaline.

The dresser.

Top Drawer.

Her paints.

All of them.

Cracked, dry, lost.

It wasn't often that her eyes reached the deep blue they were at that moment. As she looked at the colorful array of jars the too perfect symbolism hit her hard in the chest, sinking then to the pit of her stomach making her double over. The colors were all dried up. Useless. Unused. Gone. Across the room was a dusty mirror, one she hardly used but for to touch up her hair dye and makeup.

Her hair dye and makeup...

She couldn't bare to look, but at the same time couldn't bare not to. Both were missing now. Her face looked so foreign without them. So plain, so empty. They were never a fashion statement, not even a symbol of rebellion. Those two flashes of color that made her stand out from a crowd were representations of herself. Her dedication to color, her passion, her obsession. Even most of her tattoos were faded now. All that remained were those around her eye.

"Gods..." Her already weak muscles became useless as a heaviness settled over the room, a dark feeling of emptiness pushing her down to the floor.

Always so defiant. Defiant against authorities, against other people, against her mother, against the Gods. A brick wall, with extra bricks on the inside to be thrown at trespassers.

On this day Wart found that even the thickest, most angry walls could be broken down.

It just took time.

[Wart]

The tears lasted shamefully long. Eventually though the stinging pain of her eyes brought Wart back around to the real world. Knees clutched against her chest and back against her dresser, she sat there in silence, staring ahead at the floor. Her eyes, now a dull red, were tired and swollen, but had their old stubborn look of determination.

The heaviness from earlier still hung on her shoulders. The weight of realizing how much progress she had lost still brought a sick taste to her mouth. However the dark hopelessness of it all had passed. Like the shakiness in her muscles, this was just another piece of weakness to be worked past and shrugged away.

Art was her life. A stroke of a brush was as natural as taking in a breath. A little time away from all of that was not going to take that away from her. Not even a year of disused muscles. Not even a year of disused paint. Not even a stupid stick of wood.

Wart grabbed the desk and carefully pulled herself up. The soreness that had been kept away by the infirmary's medicines was becoming harder to bare, but the pain almost felt good now. It kept her down to earth, away from the darkness that had taken her earlier. The pain meant there was still muscle there somewhere, and no matter how long it took, she was going to work it back into use.

A couple steps brought her to her cane, and she picked it up to help her get to her bed.

"Goal one," she sighed, "get rid a' this petchin' thing."

[Wart]

The first day of exercises had been a mistake. Overestimating herself, Wart started by attempting pushups. Two minutes and a face full of floor showed her that that wasn't going to happen. Pullups - out of the question. Situps - no. Finally she lay on her bed, more sore and exhausted than before she'd started.

The rest of the day was filled with more attempts that ended with failure. Each try was smaller and smaller, until finally she realized that she would have to start at the very, very beginning. Learning to walk again.

And so, here she was this next morning. Once again the night had been filled with sore tossing and turning, and as the sun rose she finally gave in and got up to start. She'd decided that, if any progress was going to be made, standing was going to be the first.


With the first set of exercises done, she lay on her bed, simply breathing and staring up at the ceiling. She wasted as little time as she could, however, and after around 10 minutes of rest she got up and repeated what she'd done before.

10 counts standing, arms stretched up against the wall. 10 counts just standing. 20 counts sitting, because Gods this should not take effort.