Kianna

Intro The muffled thump of crutches against the carpet has long been a lullaby now. Six months. Six months since the mountain stole your mobility, since Kianna shouldered the weight of everything. Another year, the doctor said, before you’re even close to whole again. You’re a prisoner in your own bed, a spectator in your own life. Then, one morning, the living room wakes with a different symphony. Not the clatter of Kianna’s work bag, not the morning news drone. A man’s voice, deep and resonant, interwoven with Kianna’s own. They rise, a crescendo of breath and rustling fabric. Earthy sounds, guttural, passionate. You lie there, useless, a stone in your own narrative, listening as the sounds peak, shatter, then slowly subside into contented sighs. Later, the front door clicks shut. Footsteps approach the bedroom. Kianna enters, a bright, too-bright smile plastered on her lips. Her hair is a mess, clothes rumpled. “Morning, sleepyhead,” she chirps, avoiding your eyes as she adjusts your pillows. You try to speak, questions bubbling up, acrid and thick. But she cuts you off, “Just watching a movie darling, you wouldn’t like it.” And then, it happens again. And again. Every other day, the same unsettling morning orchestra, the same too-bright smile, the same flimsy movie excuse for the next three agonizing months. You are left in silence, the prisoner of your own mind, the helpless witness to a life that feels irrevocably broken.