The view out to Lilly Avenue from the fourth floor east side window of the Brookdale apartment building, the only window in Mclarence Woodrow's dingy two room apartment, was incredibly dull and, by extension, ached with despair. Grey tree bark lazily grabbed at sullen grey clouds as fat raindrops, bone chilling, splashed into deep muddy slush puddles for an altogether greyer than grey scene. It was, in fact, so mind numbingly dull, and indeed ached so strongly with despair that a majority of local commuters chose to bypass it on the new route 86 despite its lengthy wraparound. While most avoided this street at all cost, Mr. Woodrow found the view from his fingerprint laden window comforting. Above and below him, although no proof existed, Mclarence remained certain that the neighbors were enjoying a veritable Disney Land of glee. "Two thousand," he said in a distinctly deep and monotonous voice as he listlessly slid from his bed,"two hundred," his speech was labored and grew slower with each utterance,"and seventy three." Mclarence had a strange habit of counting; this number, which increased by exactly one exactly every day, remained entrenched in his mind more than even his own birth day. While shaving he cut himself and could not, for the life of him or another, tell if it was a accident or not. "How dreadful," he said in a slightly reminiscent tone as hot red blood swirled down the musty grey drain. He watched the crimson circus with a distant shameful look, as though lost in thought."But on this matter," he once said,"There is only feeling." Neglecting to tend to his wounds, Mclarence wandered into the kitchen where he fixed himself a bowl of oatmeal, plain, and a mug of warm water while teetering back and fourth on the familiar red stool. Sadly, this just about this sums up Mr. Woodrow's contemporary existence. A few short years ago he amassed a small fortune to last him for the rest of his life, providing that he resided in the dingy fourth floor apartment on Lilly Avenue and avoided such luxuries as cinnamon or chairs, and that's what he did. Mr. Woodrow spent the majority of his days, not quite under pressure, far from ease in the familiar red stool with a wobbly leg, always unsure.
"The upside to being in a wheelchair," she thought,"Is that everyone is so friendly and helpful." Elizabeth Meyers slowly made her way down a glorious sweeping staircase on the vertical chair lift at her office, smiling and greeting familiar co-workers along the way. While wheeling across the pristine marble lobby floor of what was, in her opinion, the prettiest of all buildings in town her thought continued,"I also get a better parking spot than my boss." Now outside, she cast her view skyward at the glimmering structure for what must have been the thousandth time and was amazed that the building continued to woo her. Its speckled marble modern Greek architecture and intricate Corinthian columns never failed to instill awe in Ms. Meyers. With slightly more effort than the average person, she and her chair were strapped in and ready for the drive home. The interior of Elizabeth's car, at first glance, held no marked differences from all others, but on closer inspection one could deduce that it had been modified for the average paraplegic. The throttle and brakes, instead of their traditional homes on the floor, resided on the steering wheel." I can't believe that they make cars just for people just like me," Elizabeth said excitedly to herself," I mean, how many of these could they sell?" Her intense brown curls boinged as she checked, first left, then right, and pulled out onto N. Fifth Street. The exceedingly bright dusk sunlight which probed her eyes, a light that would annoy even the most calm spirited and battle hardened of road warriors simply invigorated Ms. Meyers. The very idea that she could perceive this slight nuisance, or indeed anything at all, overjoyed her to the extent that it was no bother. "Now I get to try my new sunglasses," she giggled. They were rater sporty. Even the flow of traffic towards impending gridlock on route 86 failed to dampen spirits. To Elizabeth, it was just an opportunity to fiddle with the radio and maybe discover a new favorite song. She continued in these spirits for some time. It was only after 45 minutes or so that she finally discovered the ghastly cause of the bottleneck, a bone chilling reminder.
The sky was grey that night. It had been some six long years since then but she could distinctly remember the impact, the flow of rosy hue into tall grass, gravel cuts and thunder, darkness, but strangely, most of all, forgiveness. It was through forgiveness that she found her strength. "Despite all odds," she recalled the voice of the midnight surgeon more than even her own mother's,"We think she is going to make it." Elizabeth only hoped that wherever he was, whatever he was doing, he could find forgiveness within himself for what he had done; it was, after all, an accident. She had never seen anyone so hurt as him that night.
