Bound and Gagged (?/F) - Chapter 7

[AlexUSA3]

Bound and Gagged (?/F) - Chapter 1

‘Sup, fam? I’m Casey Clark, the girl who found the Cool Girls’ Club—and the one who nearly destroyed it. I sure wasn't the original Cool Girl, and I certainly wasn’t cool enough to keep our family together for long. In this story, though, I want to talk to you about something different. We’ll see how it goes. This is my story of how physical illness led to spiritual redemption.

It all really began in church. I was a good kid at heart, but I was stubborn. I got into a fight with the pastor’s daughter over singing roles. Guess who lost? At that point, I was disgusted with our church, and I stopped going. My parents weren't forcing me to go if I didn't want to go; they knew I’d come back. I still loved God, but I grew spiritually weak. I abandoned the only thing that I could rely on in all circumstances, and I forgot the cleansing of the baptismal waters I’d felt as a brightly smiling 11 year-old girl. Without church, I was lacking something to give me strength.

I sought strength in friends. First came Hannah Larsson. We wanted to expand our friendship to build a Club. We wanted it to be special, open to all who'd agree to the quirks, and fun. I met an energetic bouncy girl named Jenny and her best friend Nichole. They liked wearing bandanas as much as they could, keeping one in their backpacks and putting it on after school. Inspiration! I started a slight shift in my fashion, and I found people like me who wanted to love and be loved.

We had our idea, and we named ourselves the Cool Girls’ Club, or the CGC. After some poking, I stumbled onto TUGs; all of us agreed it sounded cool. We tried playing and liked them. TUGs became a CGC tradition with all members required to pass a TUG challenge. That was it. Then in January 2011, I wrecked everything. I was a bully to my friends, dominating the induction of a new girl and pushing around a mutual friend. Instead of being fun, the induction was a horrible and miserable experience for everyone. I could have fixed it all, but instead I ran away. It's here that my story really began, my story of renewal in faith and my return to the CGC. How I made amends with the souls I’d hurt and earned their trust once again.

I kept up by learning how to tie myself up. I love TUGs, and self-TUGs were my only TUGs in a world without the CGC. I got good at them—tying myself up, trying new gags, and timing my escapes. I had fun, but I missed the people. I missed Jenny’s bounciness, Hannah’s sensibility, Nichole’s calm wisdom, and the senses of camaraderie, friendship, and love. I had thrown it all away. This is the story of how I, having already lost my faith and friends, lost my strength—and how, against the odds, those girls gave me strength when I needed it most.

In June, just after I finished my freshman year of high school, Pop and I were painting the house. We were standing on a scaffolding, and the side collapsed. I went down and hit the ground with a thud that shook the moles right out of the garden. Everything went black for a minute before I came around with Pop holding my hand. Of course, being a police officer, he called 9-1-1. They took me to the hospital, and I got a clean bill of health. It was just a concussion. They wished.

A week later, Mom and Pop went to church, and I stayed home as usual. I set up everything for a fun time playing video games. I don't remember anything except thinking of how much I was missing going to church. My life was empty, and I knew I wasn’t doing enough for my soul. I’d just put the disk in the Wii when everything went black. Disturbingly black.

The next sensation I remember is blackness. All blackness. I heard Pop’s voice. I fluttered my eyes. I was woozy, like I was drunk. Machines were beeping like crazy. Artificial lights were blinding me. Tears filled my eyes from the brightness of the lights. I felt something I still can't describe, like I wasn't functioning. I was alive but not alive. I had no idea how much hope that I gave my parents— just by fluttering my eyes and turning my head.

It was like I was bound and gagged. I couldn't move or talk. My efforts to move were stopped by an invisible force. I had the most painful headache imaginable; I wanted to scream because of the pain. If Pop was there, Mom was there too. One of them would see me crying. One of them would help me, right? Why was I being held prisoner like this? I tried again, but something kept me weighed down. What was it? I knew something was wrong because gags muffle speech, but you can't fully silence someone. I was fully silenced. I couldn't move anything but my eyes and head. I was trapped. Trapped! Why? Why weren’t Mom and Pop helping me out of this?

My tongue told me that something was in my mouth. I could move my tongue, and hard plastic was there. Wires and machines were all over me. Then it hit me: I was in a hospital. I was… I was dying? It couldn't be, could it? Why would I drop dead? No, I couldn't have dropped dead or, well, I’d be dead. The beeping pounded in my skull. Blackness overcame me, but only after I first heard these two cryptic expressions that made no sense to me at that time.

“Doctor, she's trying to move. She's definitely stabilized and not braindead,” a male voice spoke.
“Good,” another man responded, “Mr. and Mrs. Clark, it’ll be a long time, but she’ll make it.”

The next time I opened my eyes, blinding light, sunlight, filled the room. Each beep grew louder as I exited my sleep. I was groggy and still a captive but felt different. I was able to breathe on my own. The life support machines were gone, but tubes, lines, and other points were there. I turned my head, and there was Mom. I had to try to grab her attention. I moved my tongue, the memory of the gag still fresh in my mind as if it’d been hours, but my tongue barely moved. I was—no, it couldn’t be—paralyzed?! The throb in my head was as strong—nay stronger—than ever. Why did my head hurt so much? A hospital?!

“-om,” I tried to yell, but it came out weak and pathetic, “Hell -e.”
“Casey, don’t strain yourself,” Mom’s voice was sad, “It’s good to hear your voice again.”

Again? Again?! Why again?! Did this mean that my voice had been silenced for a long time? How long? Why? What happened to me? Why was I in a hospital? Why did every motion feel like an overwhelming task? Why was I paralyzed? Why was— then it came back to me, the scaffolding. I remembered falling and hitting the ground— the impact, the pain, and that sudden blackness Something happened to me then. But what? I remembered having headaches, but it was just a concussion, right? That was a normal symptom, right? I did the only thing that I knew I could do—I cried.

“Baby,” Mom sat down with me, “I’m sorry. You had a stroke, but you’re going to get better.”

A stroke?! Me?! Strokes were for old people. Like, that’s how your Aunt Bernice died three or four years ago. That’s what turns old people into invalids that we visit at the nursing home each Tuesday. Strokes don’t happen to young, healthy skateboarding teenagers, do they? I was here, which meant that strokes do sometimes happen to girls like me. Why me, though? Why’d I have a stroke? How long was I… dead… before you found me? Why did I live? Why didn’t God take me home instead of letting me live? Maybe He had a reason— Jesus, thank you for a second chance. I promise You I’ll go back to church and apologize to Joy. I promise.

My breath shallowed as panic set in. Many questions flooded my mind, but I couldn’t ask any of them. How long would it be for me to get back to normal? Would I talk again? Would I be able to eat on my own? Would I skateboard again? What about Morris, our sweet black cat? Would I be able to pet him? What about Jenny, Hannah, and Nichole? Did they know about this?! Two of those questions came so quickly— as if Mom could read my mind.

“I guess word got around. Some little blonde girl named Jenny came looking for you last week. Don’t be afraid, Casey, Pop and I will help you in every way we can, and someday you’ll zip up and down the sidewalks of Mudville again. Calm down and rest. You need it.”
“-om…,” it took so much effort just to stroke her hand with my fingers.
“Kimberly, how are you and Lou doing?” I heard the voice of mom’s brother, Uncle Paul.

I fell asleep. I was exhausted. In my sleep I experienced a sudden, strange thought. The mind is a strange thing. I remembered being 12 years old and picking through the fire safety box full of mementos with a smile on my face. Pop showed me so many things. His first police badge. My official kindergarten photo. There were two things I found—things I wasn’t supposed to find out so young: my birth certificate and a newspaper clipping. They flashed through my dreams. That cold government type was fresh in my head.

Name: Casey Andersen
Birth: September 21, 1995
Place: Mudville, Scott, Minnesota
Father: Jose Perez y Muñoz
Father’s Home: Buenos Aires, Argentina
Mother: Heather Andersen
Mother’s Home: Mudville, Scott, Minnesota

“But, Dad… who are these people?!” I asked in shock, and he sighed.
“Casey, you’re old enough to understand. Your mother abandoned you at the fire department in January of ‘96. When I saw the newspaper, I knew God wanted you to bless our lives.”
“You mean,” I gasped, “You’re not my dad?!” a tween was naturally terrified by this.
“I,” he took my hand, “am your dad.. Maybe we don’t share blood, but we’re family.”

I knew what I was doing when I called you family. I knew what I was doing when I founded the CGC. I knew family wasn’t just about flesh and blood. Right then, in my dreams, I feared, for the first time in my life, that Mom and Pop would abandon me. Just as suddenly, the memory faded. I woke up in tears not knowing that 17 hours had passed. This time, Pop was there. He took my hand in the same grip of promise with which he’d taken it two years earlier. I stopped crying and smiled at him as best as I could. Even smiling was hard for me in this state, but it was enough for him to smile.

There were fewer machines, only those necessary to monitor my health metrics. I was alive, but I realize some of you might think this isn’t much of a life. It was life, though, my life. I knew that I could still accomplish much. If I could make Pop smile, I could make others smile as well. That’s worth living. My life was the world to my parents. A young woman came into the room with an inspiring grin on her face. I knew her from church but never had talked to her.

“Good morning, Casey. I’m Jessica. I’m your physical therapist. May I move your legs?”
“Mmm,” I nodded, sounding and feeling like someone who was bound and gagged.

That was something special about Jessica. She always asked before doing anything. She knew I was emotionally distressed by this. She was patient. She was kind. She had a job to do, helping me get back to normal. She sat me up and moved the hospital blankets. For the first time I saw my hospital gown. I was comforted to see my own fuzzy black socks. There was normalcy amid the chaos. It was my first conscious therapy session. She gently and strongly pumped my legs. It was necessary, she explained, to prevent atrophy. I understood her; I paid full attention during all the health units in school. I knew it would be a long recovery when I felt that urge.

And soiled myself.

[hafnermg]

Welcome back Casey!! I remember the stuff with Casey and the club back in the day. I looked forward to seeing her redemption!!

[RopeBunny]

A good start

Liked the references, the use of similarity TUGs versus all the various hospital equipment, thinking she's bound/gagged when not.

Interesting beginning.

[AlexUSA3]

Welcome back Casey!! I remember the stuff with Casey and the club back in the day. I looked forward to seeing her redemption!!

Been a looonnnnnnnnggggggggg time

A good start

Liked the references, the use of similarity TUGs versus all the various hospital equipment, thinking she's bound/gagged when not.

Interesting beginning.

Many thanks for the kind words. I hope the second chapter continues to make as good of an impression.

Bound and Gagged (?/F) - Chapter 2

Soiling myself was completely unexpected but unsurprising in context. I blushed in humiliation, fighting the tears that welled in the corners of my eyes. I felt like a baby. Crying like one only would make the situation worse. Despite my attempts the tears freely flowed. This was my cold, dark reality. I was another sniveling snot child who needed diapers and wet wipes. Even a baby could hold it in, but I couldn’t. My body had failed me in nearly every way. This was downright pathetic! Did I deserve this? I guess the attention was all on me though! Just look around the room. I had a roomful of people all about the bed like I was the most interesting thing on earth!

What a cold place to be. I had the senses of taste, smell, sight, hearing, and touch, but the rest of my body was chaotic or broken. The room was bright and sterile. I hated the fluorescent lights more than ever. Having so many eyes on me felt like a freak show, but I could not even squirm under their gaze. A distinctive, embarrassing odor filled the room. I was an energetic, healthy 15 year-old, strong enough that my doctor once marveled at my unusually efficient heart. Now, this?! I was reduced to infancy—unable to talk, wearing diapers, and needing help to perform the most basic tasks. But I was alive. That was… better than being dead, right?

I thought soiling myself was a nightmare, but I was wrong. The real horrors hadn’t started yet. Kids aren’t supposed to have craniotomies. They aren’t ordinary surgeries—they’re life-altering nightmares. They had to shave my head near the spot of the hemorrhage. A bald patch. All mine to cherish for the next 18 months while my hair grew back. Just as I burst into tears at the horror of soiling myself, the nurse started changing my bandage. The rush of cold air against the bald patch was like a slap on the head. I knew it right then—my head had been cut open to save my life. Sawed up. The antiseptic stung, a stabbing pain. I winced as it ran down my head, loudly fizzing as it sterilized the place where they’d sawed into me. At what cost had my life been saved? A bald patch. A broken body. No dignity. At least I had two allies in my therapist and Pop, who kindly noticed the embarrassing smell. It embarrassed me to be unable to even tell anyone I needed a diaper change. Worse than the antiseptic. So. Totally. Humiliating. It’s good to be alive… right?

“Jessica, please stop,” Pop gestured toward my therapist, “Nurse, that smell’s in the air.”
“All right,” the nurse snapped at him, “I’ll get that once her bandage is changed.”
“Dr. Martin, how long until Casey can come home?” I felt Pop’s protective love in his tone.
“Ah… -uv… -ou,” the words barely made it out, each syllable an exhausting chore.
“Hey, Casey, can you try to grip my hand?” Jessica spoke, distracting me from my suffering.
“Mmmmm,” I tried and tried but I couldn’t do it, but I didn’t cry.
“Thank you. I think we’re going to get along just great,” she smiled, and I believed her.
“Mmmmm,” my response was accompanied by the lightest tap with my finger.

This was my life now. For the next two weeks, it was the same routines of Mom and Pop at my side, daily dressings of my bandage, Jessica for physical therapy, and a nice older lady, Ms. Hopkins, for my speech therapy. Jessica, in particular, started working with me ever so patiently so I could learn to push a button that would tell my parents I needed attention. It was 12 days after I regained consciousness that that same nurse pushed my father too far.

“Must one of you always be here?” the nurse, once again, snapped at Pop, “She’s 15!”
“Nurse. Get out of here. Leave the things for me to love my daughter.”

I’d seen Pop go through so much in my life. I’d seen him lose his father, my beloved Pop-Pop, a friend to the dangers of police work, and a cousin. Never before did he cry like he did while he changed my bandage. The fizz of the antiseptic didn’t hurt so much under his touch. I felt love in his hands. Mom and Pop loved me like I was their own flesh and blood. I would always be Casey Clark. Not Andersen. It was worth exhausting myself to force the phrase, “Ah uv oo Pa,” out of my lips. Pop kissed my forehead, and the next day I went home.

Being in the hospital had tried my patience in many ways— the smells, clinical atmosphere, and sterility. The humiliations associated with my helplessness. Nurses assuming I wanted to watch cartoons instead of sports. Staring at the ceiling for hours at a time. Unwanted interruptions to my sleep. Awful food. Not moving. Having others make my decisions. The intrusions when I wanted to be alone. The annoying beeping of machines. The hustle and bustle of the hospital. The awful, sinking feeling that I was just existing and not being a part of life. If I had to just be the lifeless blob, I’d rather be home—where I was unconditionally loved.

Who would have thought going home would be so embarrassing? Mom put my favorite pajamas on me. Thoughts of dressing your invalid loved ones usually lead to images of children loving a sickly old person—I’m only 15! Here I was getting dressed in my blue plaid fleece pants and a blue t-shirt with those fuzzy blue socks I liked so much. It was embarrassing—but loving. How I love Mom even still, all these years later, and I cannot thank her enough for this simple deed.

Jessica and I worked so hard for this moment, and she came during her break to proudly watch as my parents, following the nurses instructions with such loving care, put me in the wheelchair for my ride home. I sat up without support straps!—we used them regardless. The embarrassment of a teenager struggling to sit up naturally made me squirm. I could feel every eye staring at me as my parents lovingly wheeled me out of the hospital and to the waiting SUV.

My presidential entourage watched to approve or disapprove of how my parents seated me in the vehicle. Mom climbed in beside me, wrapped an arm around me, and kissed me. Right in front of the nurses and Jessica. I didn’t care. I had gotten this far—I could go further. I knew I’d see Jessica the next day anyway. She did three days of hospital care; two of home care. I’d have never made it so far so soon without her support. I can’t list all of it because it’d bore you, but the most important one is the button—I’ll tell you about it later. Pinky swear.

The ride home. Blugh! Every bump on the ride from west Savage to Mudville, where we lived, was like an unique migraine of its own—a hammer pounding on my skull. Mom held me for the entire trip so that I wouldn’t slump, and I now weakly took her hand in my own. She kissed me on the cheek—and told me how Jenny had visited to ask how I was doing. I wanted to… to see Jenny and Nichole and Joy so badly. Tell them how sorry I was for my conduct. But I couldn’t. How depressing it was that I was so cut off from the whole world like this.

When the wheelchair rolled into the house at Pop’s command, I was immediately in awe at what I found. Our house was (is) one story, but it was full of elevation changes and such. My parents, in such short order, installed wheelchair ramps—with their own hands (and those of other family members) and grips. They could wheel me anywhere and, with time, I’d be able to use crutches to get anywhere as well. I started crying and saying “Ah uv -ou!” even though speaking took so much out of me. Pop whispered in my ear: “Anything for our daughter.” This was more than love. It was completely devoting our home and their lives to strengthening our love. Now that is the true meaning of familial love. Maybe I was still a semi-lifeless blob, but I was a loved blob.

Morris. He missed me too. With a trilling chirp, the little black furry friend jumped on my lap to greet me. He headbutted my hand and purred. I wanted to pet him, but I could barely touch him with my hand let alone perform the repetitive motion of going back and forth all over his body. I missed my snuggle buddy so much. He looked at me with curiosity and sadness at my state. My buddy just knew something was wrong even if he couldn’t understand it like people could. I could have cried—instead I resolved to one day pet that black fuzz again.

Then the sadness came. Because the hospital bed was too big, my parents had to swap bedrooms with me and were now sleeping in my bedroom, with my bed being taken apart for now so that I could have the more spacious room and be able to maneuver in the wheelchair and be wheeled to the attached master bathroom instead of the bathroom I normally used. Even coming home was a strange and disorienting experience. But it was good. Me. Mom. Pop. And Morris.

I was still effectively bound and gagged against my will. I couldn’t move; I couldn’t talk; I was a captive of my own body’s failure. I was a captive of the fall off the scaffolding now some five weeks ago. Five long weeks, but for me it’d been only three weeks. How much my loved ones had suffered. Even if I’d been at church that Sunday, I still would have had the stroke. Could I have made my fate worse by staying home and playing video games that day? Or was it a point in time where it happened? It didn’t matter. I’d been sawn up. It was in the past, but it was the one thought that seemed to be haunting me at the time.

Once in my bed, Pop got me into a reclining position where I didn’t need to work to hold myself up. Mom put the button where I could “easily” reach it, which meant within 2 inches of my hand and, in particular, my left index finger, since that was my strong hand despite being right-handed. Maybe I wasn't in my room, but it smelled and felt like home. I had Mom, Dad, Morris, and—if I do declare—no crotchety nurses. The walls were the colors that we chose, and there wasn't the incessant beeping of machines. I pinky swore, and it's time to fulfill that promise.

The button wasn't anything fancy. It had two buttons I could push, actually. The blue one was a simple call for help—hunger, uncomfortable, boredom, etc. The red one was for major needs—a diaper change, medical issues, fear, etc. I was tired of having to make people guess to help me; a therapist can't change that I’m limited. Still, I could push the button, and Mom comically chose a bell ring sound for the blue button so I could summon the maid or butler. The red button made a triple buzzer sound. It was a little way of getting attention and being allowed privacy.

Lying here gave me a grim reminder that this was really happening. I had to relearn everything I ever did except for basic autonomic functions. I was staring at the ceiling, but it was the ceiling in my own home. Right there, right then, I apologized to God for not spending more time in His house, for not trying harder to apologize to that girl at church, and for being a bad friend. I had a list of goals in mind—personal goals—to fix my mistakes and to reclaim a sense of normalcy.

• Apologize to Joy, Jenny, and Nichole
• Apologize to the pastor's daughter
• Learn to skateboard again
• Learn to play TUGs again

My grandparents came to visit the minute they heard I was home, but Mom kindly asked first if I wanted to entertain visitors. I nodded even though I do little more than gently pat their fingers. I smiled as best as I could and told them I loved them. That exhausted me so much I had to take a nap. What kind of invalid was I that I had to nap because I did something seemingly minor. The thought of one day being normal—and being the one comforting them—was sobering.

“Casey, are you OK?” Mom interrupted my thoughts with gentle, maternal concerns.
“Eh,” I grunted like a captive, but I truly felt empty at the moment. Frankly, I was bored.
“Something is on your mind, honey,” it was her turn to cry, “And you can't even tell me what.”
“Mohha,” I patted her finger sadly while she embraced me, and I promised myself to tell her.
“Nothing hurts a parent more than to see a child suffering,” her words are still fresh in my mind.

I would tell her when I could.

[wolfman]

This is the most, thoughtfully written, respectful and heart wrenching tale I think I have ever read on this site.

You capture the mood perfectly and as I read it, I am right there with Casey. This is so moving and powerful.

[AlexUSA3]

This is the most, thoughtfully written, respectful and heart wrenching tale I think I have ever read on this site.

You capture the mood perfectly and as I read it, I am right there with Casey. This is so moving and powerful.

I cannot put into words just how happy I was to read this comment. I've written many stories that aimed to create an atmosphere of pathos, though I don't know how familiar you are with my work, and this is the first time expressed such a keen appreciation for these moments. My goal was to put the reader in the hospital bed, wheelchair, etc. alongside her.

[wolfman]

This is the most, thoughtfully written, respectful and heart wrenching tale I think I have ever read on this site.

You capture the mood perfectly and as I read it, I am right there with Casey. This is so moving and powerful.

I cannot put into words just how happy I was to read this comment. I've written many stories that aimed to create an atmosphere of pathos, though I don't know how familiar you are with my work, and this is the first time expressed such a keen appreciation for these moments. My goal was to put the reader in the hospital bed, wheelchair, etc. alongside her.

I feel I owe you an apology. I do not frequent the site as much as I once did due to real world concerns. However when I do i find myself here, I dip in and out of your work and continue to be impressed with the balance in your posts.

The atory and the bondage elements within, flow naturally and are never forced. The conversations between your characters are natural and never stilted. Moreover, the thoughts and emotions are shown clearly, by implication and acrion rather than straight up stated. This is rare.

And so, I must apologise for not commenting earlier and more frequently on your work.

[AlexUSA3]

I hope this continues to deliver for @wolfman, @RopeBunny, and @hafnermg.

Bound and Gagged (?/F) - Chapter 3

Progress was slow—frustratingly slow. I hated it. Physical therapy with Jessica was productive; speech therapy with Ms. Hopkins was fruitful. What I hated was the position—being immobile and unintelligible. I moved and spoke like someone who was bound and gagged, and the feeling made me yearn for one day again being bound and gagged for real as part of a game with friends.

Physical therapy brought a sense of accomplishment. I started simple—gripping a ball, getting my muscles pumped to prevent atrophy while my brain relearned muscle activity. We worked up to pinching small things. I worked up to being able to sit up with assistance for 5-10 minutes. A wheelchair was a real option for me once I could sit up even if others had to wheel it for me.

Speech therapy made me feel like a stroke victim more than anything else. With time, I worked from saying “I love you” being an immense labor to having small conversations without feeling completely overwhelmed. I spoke like a drunk, but I spoke. Mom and Pop could understand me enough to fulfill my needs. This was over another month after coming home. Baby steps.

Diapers were still a part of life. What love and dedication! I was a 15 year old—Mom and Pop didn't complain once about me having to wear diapers. Mom lovingly gave me sponge baths. I was gaining enough muscle control to be able to move the muscles, but such was going to be an incredibly long time. The doctor warned me it could be years. Still, each time I felt the urge, I’d fight it in the hopes of beating it back just a little. How exhausting that could be though! I won’t ever be able to thank my parents enough for their unconditional love at this point in my life.

Doctor’s appointments were numerous and adventurous. I had to get strapped in the wheelchair, get wheeled to the car, and have someone support me on the ride. Mom couldn't do it alone, and I received help from my grandparents, my cousins, my aunt, and, on one occasion, two girls I’d lovingly nicknamed “Gangsta Princess” and “Gangsta Queen.” My doctors were thrilled with my progress—what joy! It took some weeks, but the staples came out too. This all happened over a period of 6 months, but we must first visit two important moments.

First came heartbreak though. Before I enjoyed triumphs, I had to deal with sadness. There was a complication in my recovery that is hard to describe. It was my second month of recovery—I remember it so clearly. I finally got lucky. I was strapped in the wheelchair and felt the urge to use the bathroom. This time, I was ready for it. Mom and I had discussed this moment—when I would try to use the toilet with her holding me up. It was overzealous on my part, a mistake.

“Ma, bathwoo,” came off my lips, and Mom wheeled me right away towards the bathroom.
“All right, Casey,” Mom immediately came to my aid and wheeled me away.

Then I saw it. That disfigured head. The stroke face. Man, it was horrible, and I can't believe it was real even today. I had an obvious big scar on my head; my hair was short there because they (my doctors) shaved it to get access to my skull. I was horrified; the sight was horrid. No longer did I care about the toilet. I’d seen the monster—the monstrosity that was my real nightmare.

“Ma! Thah’th me!” I wailed and started crying.

It wasn't until I could get a feminine haircut that I stopped hiding my head. From that moment to the day I got that haircut, I always wore a bandana or, when bandanas weren’t appropriate, a knit hat. I wasn’t ashamed; I wasn’t vain; I was scared. If I was scared, then how did Mom and Pop feel about it? I had to hide that horrible sight for our sakes—for our love and happiness. I was now mentally ready, though, to have visitors—on my own terms for once.

Then came the second event. The day which was a great triumph. Five days after the incident in the bathroom, I sent a group text to the “Gangsta Princess” and “Gangsta Queen”— I asked them for their forgiveness for my past actions. No surprise, since Jenny, the “Gangsta Princess,” only a week before had been on our doorstep a third time in the few weeks since the stroke, she forgave me. To my utter surprise, Nichole, the open-minded agnostic, forgave me as well. That text, however, required me to tell my mother what to type on my phone because I couldn’t use a fingerprint sensor let alone type more than “ok” without being completely exhausted.

I was sitting up in bed the day they showed up on our doorstep—again. This time, I asked Mom to let them in. I was ready—to face the people I loved and hurt in my arrogance. Maybe I could only receive a hug and not give it, but the way I squeezed their hands—yes, squeezed—did the same exchange of affection that a hug could. I implored them to sit down.

They felt it for sure. Imagine walking into a home like this and seeing me propped up in a chair like this—then seeing all the ramps and such that not only had been installed but also had been installed so well that they looked like a natural part of the home. Same wood; same finish; same love, the love with which Pop and I did it together from when I was 9 to 12 years old. This was my home—my home was their home. That’s how love works. Cool Girls love without caveats or demands, and we forgive too. At least, that was what Jenny and Nichole told me. The months after my bad behavior led to reforms, and they changed the CGC rules to include both an emphatic vow to love but also to forgive—unconditionally. Unconditionally! Wow! Such love!

“Hleeth, enhoy yourthelveth,” I motioned to them, and I even—dare I say it—thmiled. Haha!

That visit was the turning point for me. I knew then that my goals were feasible. That I was on a journey—and not alone. If anything, I had so many supporting me that it felt unfair. How could I not feel loved? While there were moments of happiness, there were moments of sadness.

I speak of Joy Fredericks. The girl I’d hurt. The one who, in my zeal to be in control, I offended most of all. To whom I’d shown myself to be a jerk. To whom I showed arrogance, selfishness, and a general lack of empathy. I wasn’t any of those things, but, in the passion and distance from the faith that truly defined me, I had shown myself to be too set on the Cool Girls’ Club being an elitist organization. Instead of being fun, I’d made the initiation process the central aim. Instead of being a friend like I wanted the Club to be, I’d been a dictator. That’s why sadness came.

With Jenny typing for me on my phone, we sent a message to Joy. I asked her for forgiveness, a second chance. Forgiveness alone would have been enough. Jenny even edited the message for a better emphasis on my sorrow, and Nichole sent a message explaining what had happened and that she saw that I was a different person now. We tried so hard, but it wasn’t enough.

That evening, maybe around 7 PM, my phone happened to be sitting on the bed. It exhausted me to type in the passcode despite being just a simple finger swipe pattern. I opened up Facebook to check, since I didn’t have Joy’s phone number, and there it was. She had blocked me. That was more than I could handle. I swept my phone off the bed and to the floor with a bang that led my father to come check on me. I was crying and told him what had happened. He did what a good parent does—he hugged me and told me that life’s not always fair, that people are different.

A week later began something that would define the next several months. One day, Pop took me out of bed and put me in the wheelchair after supper. He brought me out to the living room and sat me on the sofa so that I could lean on him for support. There I sat—I remember it well. My regular black socks, my favorite black sweats, my black kerchief, my pink t-shirt. Sitting on the sofa. Leaning on Pop. Taking his hand in my hands and holding them. Deliberately.

With time, by the end of the third month, I could sit up in the wheelchair for a few hours now. It was a routine now. I’d wake up, use the controls to shift my hospital bed to sit up, read the Bible for 10-15 minutes (using a tablet), and pray. When Mom or Pop got up, they’d come check with me and change my diaper if necessary since I couldn’t hold it in all night long if necessary. Then I would be put in the chair and wheeled out for breakfast. Finger food was best; I could eat that unassisted—bacon, toaster pastry, cinnamon raisin toast, etc. Bagels took too much effort to eat. I would then get wheeled into the bathroom, and Mom would undress me, strap me in the shower chair, and clean me up. I slowly worked up to rubbing myself with the washcloth. Back into the chair afterwards, and back to bed for a power nap. That was my “wake-up” routine.

Morning had a simple routine. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday were reserved for Jessica. The truth was that I’d grown to enjoy physical therapy. While doing the exercises, if we had time, we would talk about Jesus since we went to the same church. If I felt like talking. It wasn’t much to be honest. It felt good though—for both of us. We shared a connection, like sisters. Without her being my therapist, I wouldn’t have felt motivated to excel like I did. From being spoon fed soft food to chewing food I picked up with my own fingers! If a cup was put in the hold of my chair, I could suck it through a straw on my own too! Thank you, Jesus, that my gastric muscles never failed because I could reliably swallow food so long as I could chew it. Strengthening muscles was the top goal. I wasn’t a quitter, and Jessica was a natural encourager—a perfect team. More than one physical therapy session saw Jenny and/or Nichole by my side as extra loving help.

Tuesday was for speech therapy. Ms. Hopkins would come over and evaluate my progress, give me new exercises, tell me what I was doing right and wrong, and celebrate victories. The third month of recovery was the last month. It was obvious. The routine every-other-Thursday trip to the doctor, since that was all I needed, confirmed it. There was permanent damage, and I would be able to talk normally but would always have a slight slur and some weakness that would forever afflict my right side. I’d be functional, but my new 100% was more like 85% of what I’d been before the stroke. I accepted this—85% still meant I’d be able to do everything on my own. The hardest fought part of my speech was the letter “P,” and how much fun I had with that—poor Pop had to hear it “Pop! Pleathe peppily putter poor pathetic Cathey…” Yes, “s” still gets me an awful lot of the time. Even 14 years later, I have enough damage that you can see a droop in my right cheek, and “s” still comes out “th” 25-75% of the time, depending on how I feel that day.

“Oh, Mom,” I called her into the room during therapy one day, “Watch this!” and I sat up!

Yes, Mom and Pop, whoever was home, got called into the room to see every milestone that I met. Big muscle skills came faster. Finger and toe dexterity came after. I no longer felt like it was a perpetual state of being bound or gagged. In fact, I felt like a normal person again. What a triumph! I could move! That meant more fun for me. While it was the end of the third month, I still couldn’t return to school yet. Instead, I got to go to stores with Mom because I could hold it in long enough—as long as we made sure I’d used the toilet recently. Wheeling around stores on my own was so empowering. I couldn’t push the chair on my own well, but for trips to small stores that didn’t matter too much since Mom used a handbasket.

“Casey, I couldn’t be happier for you,” Pop said the day we took the risk and went to church.
“Pop, I couldn’t be happier that you saved an abandoned baby girl on that January day.”

That was really the moment it all came together for me, really. I was able to live in acceptance of the true meaning of family. The phrase “sister from another mother” rings true—Nichole and Jenny are perfect examples; they’re not sisters by blood; but Nichole has a bed in Jenny’s room because she spends the night so much. I was loved. Talking about that abandoned girl, left there 15 years ago to be taken in by another. She was someone else. I was Casey Clark, not Andersen. You can’t take that away from me. Louis and Kimberly Clark—a.k.a. Mom and Pop.

[wolfman]

@AlexUSA3

You most certainly have delivered on this story. Theis waa quite an emotional ride and you captured the highs and lows perfectly.

It is in so many ways a journey back to the light, both with her physical recovery and rebuilding her past relationships.

Kudos on another great chapter.

[AlexUSA3]

You most certainly have delivered on this story. This was quite an emotional ride and you captured the highs and lows perfectly.

It is in so many ways a journey back to the light, both with her physical recovery and rebuilding her past relationships.

Kudos on another great chapter.

It's always heart-warming when someone takes the time to appreciate the depths I put into the characters and their personal stories.

Bound and Gagged (?/F) - Chapter 4

With time, more and more of the burden fell on me. I was slowly trying to stand up, walk with a walker, dress myself, and do basic things in life. Mostly, it was me having to have the gumption or desire to do something. My next two goals were simple: (1) pet Morris and (2) go to church. I had the desire to do both things and worked towards this goal. If I could learn to write again, I could go back to school. Such lofty aspirations I had, right? They were for 15 year-old Casey!

Who would have thought that petting my cat would be such sorrow? Morris loved his cat tree, a prominent feature of my bedroom. That tree moved into the master bedroom with the hospital bed and me, but soon something great followed. My three month doctor appointment brought an incredible joy to my life—I got my room back! The doctor said I could sit up well enough to be moved into a normal bed again! I started crying right there in the examination room. My life… was finally regaining normalcy.

That morning, Jenny, Nichole, and PawPaw (Mom’s father) came to our house and moved the furniture, including Morris’s cat tree, back into the original rooms. Pop had a long shift at work, but this was a day where PawPaw had come to the doctor with us. How I loved PawPaw, and the day he died flipped my world upside down because it was completely unexpected. That’s not for the present moment, but I sadly will tell you that it’s coming very, very soon. How full of joy he was—my tears were so happy, and he cried because he loved his only granddaughter so much.

Getting my room back was such a big deal that we waited for Pop to come home and got takeout to celebrate. Sitting at the table, albeit in a wheelchair, without needing straps—what a feeling! I couldn’t cut up my food or use a fork, but I could eat finger food. A bacon cheeseburger! Oh, what happiness! Can you feel it? Slowly, the restraints are leaving me. I was helplessly bound and gagged, and now my speech was more like a cleave gag while my body was less restrained.

“Casey, sit up,” Mom came into my room—just 3 days later—after a phone call.
“Uh oh,” I could see it in her face, and I felt a horrible chill go down my spine.
“Baby, PawPaw passed away this morning. MawMaw said he put up the recliner and quietly left us,” Mom started hysterically sobbing as she told me her father was now with Jesus.
“Ma! No!” we were alone, holding each other, and sobbing the bitterest tears we’d ever sobbed.

What a gut punch. From triumph to tragedy and tragedy to triumph in a vicious cycle that began with a fall from the scaffolding. PawPaw always called me “the little blessing,” but I was older when I realized that my adoption was the reason he called me that. He let me know that I meant so much because I was an only child; I really was a blessing, such a blessing that he could die peacefully—because he knew I was gonna be all right. PawPaw! You're so badly missed!

Never before did I feel pride in being confined to a wheelchair. I know, it sounds silly, but right then I realized that my value to my loved ones was in my soul, not in my body. Even for burying PawPaw and for the church service, my head stayed under wraps. I chose a knit hat because my usual bandana seemed out of place. I can’t talk more about it because I’ll burst into tears again. I was loved by PawPaw, and I knew he was in a better place even if we missed him.

“Mom! Mom! Look at me! Look!” I said excitedly during my next physical therapy session.

There I was. Standing! OK, I was leaning on Jessica to brace myself, but I was doing it still. It was a wonderful sign! I could slowly do stuff on a tablet now; I could stand. The only part that was missing was the hand strength to wheel myself around, but I had it all figured out. You see, I had friends who loved me. Yes, we’re talking about something amazing—really amazing.

Going back to school. That was the next item on my list of milestones. Then Jessica reeled me into reality. I wasn’t nearly adept enough to go back to school, she kindly explained, but that was a realistic goal to set for myself. In other words, I was still too much of a cripple. I hated this. I wanted to be in the classroom, even if in a wheelchair! I wanted to be with Jenny and Nichole. I wanted to prove myself to Joy again. To see Hannah Larsson and bring her back to the CGC too.

“Casey, Jessica is right,” Mom said to my sadness, “You’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“But,” Jessica was such a good physical therapist, “Let’s do some exercises to make it possible.”

I had to do the exercises, and my goals meant enough to do them as Jessica told me to do them. I wanted to recover, but I had to find the line between pushing my limits and hurting myself. I had a dream of one day walking again, unaided, right into that classroom. What I didn't know was an amazing truth—that I had friends to help me too. This was the part in the story where Jenny and Nichole started to become more prominent because I could intelligibly talk to them now.

Morris, my furry friend, loyally slept with me almost every night. What was hard was that I had to think so much just to pet him—clumsily at that. He’d purr and rub me, but understanding was beyond his feline mind. I’m glad I had him around, and he was a fixture of my life even into my married years. That good boy got to be 17 before dying in 2022. My ability to pet him gave me a simple benchmark of my progress, and I’m thankful to have had him. Let's get back to 2011.

“Ma, here goeth,” I said one day during therapy, and she stood and watched me in action.

I took a deep breath. Jessica was a good physical therapist. She had invested in my well-being a bit beyond what I think was essential for her. She became the much-older big sister I never had, a source of encouragement and emotional support. With her confidence behind me, I planted my hands on the bed, trembled a bit, and slid myself into the wheelchair.

“Tada!” I weakly lifted my arms in happy triumph, “God ith gooh!” I slushed in joy.
“Wonderful! Oh, Pop will be so happy if you do that for him tonight!” Mom almost jumped.
“I can’t believe how quickly she’s making progress,” Jessica started crying, and I turned to her.
“Dethica, you’re cryin’?” I asked her, and I realized she wasn’t just my therapist any more.
“Yeah, especially since I heard a rumor that someone became our church’s newest high school Sunday school teacher,” she said with a cheerful disposition and looked into my eyes, “Guess?”

That night was the most excitement I’d felt since before the stroke. Mom wheeled me into the living room to watch the Minnesota Twins game, as I liked to do. I took a deep breath. I’d been careful to save all of my energy after therapy unlike my usual dedication to practicing each of my exercises until I was exhausted. Nope. I bided my time and energy. Got myself ready. Said one of the quickest and most impassioned prayers of my life. And pushed. I pushed, groaned, and I pushed more. Push, push, push. I had to do it—I needed to do it. Trembling. Shaking. Fear.

C’mon, Casey. Pop needs this more than you do, I told myself, and I did it—and panted.
“Sweetheart!” Pop hugged me while I felt absolutely exhausted—I did it.

That night was one where I fell asleep during the baseball game, and I woke up, as I commonly did, slept for a good 10 hours, waking up long after Pop had gone to work. I felt bizarre sleeping as much as I did, but such nights became more and more infrequent with time. Was it real? The smile on Mom’s face when I looked at her told me that it was. I’d done it—Success!

I had my TUG goals intact, and I prepared for one aspect of life by going to my clothes drawer, taking out a bandana, awkwardly folding it into a headband shape, wrapping it around my thigh, and tying and untying it. It was my own fine motor control exercise. I wanted to be able to tie knots, both for TUG and personal purposes. I liked wearing my bandanas even if, right now, the primary purpose was to hide my own head from myself and from others. Anything to relieve just a little of my mother’s loving burden.

Two nights after my triumph, I extended my skills by getting myself into bed for the night. Just a week later, I pushed myself out of the wheelchair and onto the toilet. I had just enough feeling to know a potty trip was coming, and I now wore diapers mostly for accident prevention. They were that style, too, not regular diapers. I only wore real diapers to bed now. It was awkward if I did need the bathroom. Two days later—a triumph! Jenny slept over the house! She happily helped me do things instead of Mom—what love! Jenny is Christian love personified!

Goals, goals, goals. I could play board games with Jenny when she spent the night, and that led to more frequent visits from Jenny and Nichole alike. They loved me, and I love them. We had friendship again—real friendship—better than the friendship I’d ruined nearly 10 months earlier. It was so good to sit around the table with them when school allowed them or to have them take up space on my bedroom floor for a night. I even got my own CGC bandana-themed nickname: “Gangsta Friend.” I accepted my nickname with pride and happiness—what genuine love!

During this phase, burgundy became my favorite color of bandana. It was warm and cozy, like a blanket; it was a darker color, showing some toughness; it was red, showing passion. It had the natural qualities to be inviting, cool, friendly, playful, mischievous: It was the perfect color for a “Gangsta Friend.” Nichole agreed with me when I texted—yes, texted!—this thought to her. I’d gotten adept enough to text using my index fingers so long as the phone was on a solid surface.

“POP!” I called him into the bedroom one day, and with Jessica standing 10 feet away from me I stood on my own two legs! By the end of November, I could play board games, get in and out of the wheelchair, awkwardly pet Morris, slowly use a TV remote, awkwardly text, and talk clearly even if with a slur. I could use a spoon and a fork to feed myself, and I want to get into that one.

Imagine holding a spoon full of macaroni & cheese and shaking so much that you shake it right off the spoon. Imagine shaking so much that you drop the spoon. That taking three bites leaves you so physically exhausted that you have to stop eating for five minutes or be fed by someone else. Mom, Pop, Jessica, Jenny, and Nichole all took turns doing it at times, especially Pop and Jessica. I don’t know why dinner became Pop’s time, but we shared many tears together with it. The stroke happened in June, and to my amusement my first unassisted meal was Thanksgiving with Mom, Dad, both my grandmothers, my uncle, his wife, and my cousins.

“Are you sure, Casey?” one of my cousins asked me with a bit of concern but warmth.
“I got this,” I flashed an awkward thumbs-up because I wasn’t defeated yet.

It was difficult and slow. It took me 20 minutes longer than everyone else to eat my food. I did not eat as much as the others, but I had it all—dressing, turkey, cranberry, green bean casserole, a wheat roll, and mashed sweet potatoes. I paced myself, slowly poking the fork into the turkey; I slowly scooped up potatoes. I awkwardly held the roll, and one of my cousins hugged me while she cried. I wasn’t the oldest cousin, but I was the older of the two girls. I didn’t care that every person was staring at me. I had to persevere; all Mom did was serve my food and cut the turkey. It took me 45 minutes, but I did it. I did it! Oh, what a triumph! What joy!

There was an awkwardness in it though. I was reduced to this? Where was the girl with an intoxicating smile and a skateboard? What happened to that calm energy? For my cousins, there was an awkwardness in realizing that this was reality. I didn’t care if they stared funny or if they cheered. Who would imagine that the triumph of family Thanksgiving would be 16 year-old me relearning how to eat unassisted. Sorry about that; yeah, my 16th birthday was in September.

[hafnermg]

The amount of courage she has is incredible!! I look forward to the next chapter!

[AlexUSA3]

The amount of courage she has is incredible!! I look forward to the next chapter!

It has indeed been quite the courageous journey for Casey Clark!

Bound and Gagged (?/F) - Chapter 5

The Christmas tree was a source of much determination for me. We put it up December 1, and it came down January 1. Every year. Our tradition. Mom, Pop, and Me. There was no reason for those dates; we just did it that way because we could. Us. Get together at night—and love each other. Put up the tree. Sing carols. Drink hot chocolate. Love and hug. Good stuff.

My triumph was being able to wheel myself around the house. At first—whoopee. After two or three days, though, I realized just how great that really was. Wow! I didn't need help to move or anything! I didn't need a push to get around, and I could get myself in and out of the chair. Why shouldn't I be happy? Such a rush—I had some semblance of normalcy back.

“Casey, the greatest gift this Christmas is your second miracle,” Mom couldn't say it better.
“I’m the miracle baby,” I squirmed in my chair, “Tho many bleththingth!”
“You're Pop’s little girl,” how my father loved that phrase, and how warm it made me feel.
“Thomeday,” I put an ornament on the tree, “We’ll thee thith as a thymbol of God’s love.”

Sitting in the wheelchair, helplessly stuck in it like an unwilling captive, cuddled up under warm blankets, is somehow a good memory for me because I never felt the love so strongly as I did at that time. Mom and I cried a lot because of it being the first Christmas without PawPaw. Mom and Uncle Paul felt so empty without their father, and Grandma somehow remained a bright ray of sunshine in widowhood. She came over in the morning and was so chipper. I don't want to be a spoiler, but—It's 14 years later, and Grandma is still kicking and doing great at 90 years old!

December brought a focus on three efforts: self-propelled motion, standing, and typing. Motion and typing were necessary for me to go back to school. This involved tons of planning and lots of purposeful assistance from Jessica during physical therapy. My parents had to coordinate the entire effort with the school because of my lingering bowel issues and lisp. Ms. Hopkins ended my speech therapy during this month, confident that I would have two things—a permanent slur and an otherwise successful return to full speech. Now I had to apply the lessons!

To go back to school in person required three things: a plan for bathroom matters, getting around the school, and getting permission to use a tablet to take notes. An individualized education plan (IEP) had to be formed, basically for my case saying I couldn't be hands-on in biology, couldn't take handwritten tests or quizzes, and would go to physical therapy instead of gym class. With an IEP came heartbreak. The routine physical therapy sessions would be coming to an end.

“Don't feel bad, Casey,” Mom comforted me, “You’ll still see Jessica at church!”
“That’sh true,” as you can tell, my slur was improving, “She’s stho nice.”
“She’s been a blessing to all of us, for real. She’s calling me now, actually!”

We made the most of that last week with her as my physical therapist. Santa Claus was coming to town—OK, that’s a bad Christmas joke. After Christmas break, I would return to school like my friends. This Christmas break, though, brought about moments of embarrassment, joy, and laughs. This part of my story is when TUGs returned to my life. I’ve mentioned wrapping my bandanas around my thigh to practice knots, which even Jessica found amusing. Surprises.

My parents bought a stationary-bike—my next great challenge. During that last week, Jessica taught me how to use it. The problem was that Jessica was authorized to come to homes but not to the school. This made sense, but she showed a particular care for me: coming on Sunday after church instead. This was her plan, her desire to help me, as much as she didn’t really want to be working on a Sunday. I had no idea at the time: she did the Sunday’s for free, out of love.

My desire to again play TUGs with Jenny and Nichole was motivation to regain my fine motor control. Most of my fine motor control wasn’t really such—using one finger to push buttons or to type out text messages was still an important development, but it wasn’t like holding a phone and using my thumbs to rapid-fire text—that might never come back. Ah, the challenges of life. It’s now time to get into the funny, Christmas themed story of TUGs involving my friends. The logical step, since I had mobility, was to grab my old box of TUG toys and try self-tying!

“Casey,” Mom knocked on my door one night, “what on earth are you doing?!”
“Oh,” I blushed, but I didn’t lie, “Practicing… to play thomething with Jenny and Nichole.”
“What kind of game is that? Cops and robbers?” Mom sat down on the chair by bed.
“Kind of,” I looked into her eyes and saw no judgment; she knew Jenny and Nichole were good people, “We–We–Remember the Club I thtarted wishth them a lasht year? After talking,” saying so much didn’t tire me anymore, “we dethided we liked tying and gagging eachsh other.”
“That’s unusual,” she carefully considered what I said, “Jenny? She’s such a nice girl who talks about God more than even you do,” I could hear the warmth, “Casey, I don’t think you’re ready to be doing this so soon. Pop and I will talk about this, but it’s all right by me as long as you’re making sure you take care of each other and don’t let each other get hurt in any way. Does this have anything to do with that girl Joy you mentioned hurting last winter?”
“Yesth,” my nod was confident and shameful, “I thaid a lot of mean thingth.”

With that, we talked for another 15 minutes about the CGC, especially Jenny and Nichole. Like I said, Mom knew Jenny was a walking angel— if a walking angel played TUGs then there had to be some youthful competition, affection, and innocence behind the games we’d played before my separation from the Club. Suddenly, my preference for bandanas made sense to her, and she admired the new vows that had been added to the Club—unconditional love and friendship. In that awkward moment in my room, Mom gave her personal approval of the CGC and TUGs.

Of course, Pop understood the dynamic with Joy—he was the one who found the phone and saw me crying when Joy blocked me after I sent the apology Jenny and I had written. Still, knowing that he had to approve of the games as well. The next night, while I was reading my Bible like I did every night, albeit on a tablet instead of the physical Bible like I’d had since I was 6, I heard a knock on my door—Pop. I saw a grin on his face, and he shook his head.

“So, champ, I hear you like being a real-life Emma Peel,” his laugh was infectious—I laughed too, “I decided I wanted to talk to you about it before I gave my approval of it. Why?”
“Well,” I said as he sat on the bed with me, “The game isth fun. We all like it.”
“Do you have rules to keep each other safe, though? That’s a game that could be dangerous.”
“Mmm hmm,” I nodded, having seen the “CGC Constitution” Nichole and Joy had written.
“I always thought it was something only dirty people did behind closed doors,” he laughed again.
“No. I jutht got the idea from theeing thomething on TV,” I felt safe to tell him the truth, “We all wanted our Club to have thomething thpecial and unique. We tried it and agreed we liked it.”

“All right. I have only three requests,” he helped up three fingers, “One, that you have rules to ensure everyone is safe; two, that you have rules to ensure a girl can request to get out any time; three, that you keep your games in here if you’re playing when Mom or I is home. If we’re not home, then you’re free to play out of the room. And, Casey, it’s good to see you have goals that are inspired by people like Jenny. I’m proud of you for having friends like her and Nichole even if Nichole doesn’t believe in God. They’re good kids who truly care about you. The first time I opened the door—the first time Jenny showed up—she was crying like you were her sister. But, I don’t want you playing with ropes by yourself, OK? Wait until you can do so safely so you’ll be both safe and happy,” he wrapped his arms around me, “I never imagined this would happen to you, but it makes me so happy to see you working so hard at your recovery.”

“Pop, one question,” I took his embrace with joy, “If they come over and want to play without me so that I can—be part of the fun—May I?” I looked into his eyes, and he smiled and nodded.

It wasn’t much longer until we were well into Christmas break, and the opportunity arose. Pop was at work, and Mom was busy in the kitchen. Jenny and Nichole were over at the house, and I told them about the rules Mom and Pop had set. We didn’t play right then, but I knew the day would come before I went back to school. Oh, the tricks I showed them, such incredible feats of strength! Standing up, propelling my own wheelchair, and clumsily wrapping a bandana around my own thigh and knotting it. What a strong girl—but Nichole said it was true strength indeed.

Physical therapy still dominated my life, and the first time I sat on the stationary bike—what an experience! A stationary bike was the pathway to a real bike, and it strengthened the leg muscles in ways other exercises couldn’t. Everything had to be done with consideration for my measured amounts of energy—exceeding those limits could set me back. How we flirted with true danger!

“Mmmmmm,” Jenny one day was squirming in Nichole’s arms while we sat in my room.
“Quick, Mom’s coming,” I whispered and giggled, and Nichole shoved Jenny under my bed.
“Nichole, uh,” I think Mom understood by the playful look she gave me, “Would you girls like to stay for dinner? I’m making macaroni and cheese,” my mother was, and is, a good hostess.
“Oh, sure! Thanks for asking. We’ll be sure to let Jenny’s parents know!” Nichole beamed.
“Jenny’s parents?” I asked Nichole, “You’re staying the night there again? They must like you.”
“Oh, yeah,” Nichole picked up the bound and gagged Jenny, and I patted Jenny on the cheek.

That was when I understood that something wasn’t right in Nichole’s life. It was unfair that my progress was such that the hospital bed had been collapsed and put elsewhere until we were sure it wasn’t needed any longer, and Nichole always had bruises on her arms. Jenny’s dad worked as a transport driver for the local prison system, delivering girls to the Mudville Juvenile Detention Center that was the backbone of the town’s economy and both boys and adults to other prisons as necessary; Pop was a police officer; Nichole’s dad was a physical abuser. I didn’t know then, but I should have known because Pop had encountered many such things. The talk Pop and I had!

“Pop, may I ask you something…,” I swallowed my dry tongue for a moment, “About Nichole?”
“Oh, boy,” I saw the dread on his face and knew immediately that I’d brought up something bad.
“What’s wrong? Pop,” my eyes shifted, “When Nichole stayed over last night, I noticed… when she changed her pajamas… She had an awful lot of bruises. Everywhere. Pop, is…”
“You’ve heard it all, but seeing it firsthand is different, isn’t it?” he asked me, and I felt the color drain from my face, “The problem, Casey, is that Nichole refuses to cooperate with me. I know.”
“Know what?” my face got wet with tears while I continued to deny what I understood.
“Gordon Blakely beats her. Routinely. I’m sorry, Casey,” he took my hand.

Suddenly, being strong enough to get on and off the toilet on my own without help seemed like a pittance. Nichole was really strong—so strong to endure that for 7 years. She was so scared of her dad, though, that she could hide it from me and Jenny, her two best friends. What a wretched existence she had. No wonder she spent so much time at Jenny’s and here, now that I was almost independent with using the wheelchair to get around. My arm strength was remarkable—Jessica told me as much. My life—I knew it was challenging but not bad—but it was easy compared to Nichole’s life. No wonder she was a“Gangsta Queen”—she was mentally bound and gagged..

I was more determined than ever to regain my health, so that I could stand without support, with my own two legs, and have the strength to hug Nichole. Her visits became more frequent after I talked to Pop—I have always wondered what he said to her but felt it was inappropriate to ask.

Our home, after that talk, was open to Nichole 24/7/365(6)—the least we could do for her.

[AlexUSA3]

Bound and Gagged (?/F) - Chapter 6

I didn’t know it at the time of the events at the end of the last chapter, but Jenny’s parents opened their home to Nichole in the same manner. I was just the first of Nichole’s friends to know—as a matter of protecting Nichole, I wasn’t allowed to talk about it with anyone, not even Nichole. It was a necessary step. We had a network in place to act on a moment’s notice, but thankfully the situation never reached that point where we had to worry like that. Prayers were answered.

No wonder Nichole liked being bound and gagged and binding and gagging others. She lived in a constant state of mental bondage, trapped and unable to speak. No wonder she favored her icy and navy blue bandanas best; she could identify with the chill of the icy blue and the defiance of the navy. Even the 16 year old me in a wheelchair could understand that much.

No one but my parents and I knew it, again for safety reasons, but Nichole once spent an entire week alternating between sleeping in her bed at Jenny's, because she was there so much that she had her own bed there, and a sleeping bag on the floor of my room. The worst part was that her father didn't care; the saddest part was that her mother somehow secretly reached out to thank us because she was just as powerless as Nichole. Mrs. Blakely was “only” mentally battered.

“Ok, tho I thtill thtink at video gamesh,” I smirked after another brutal defeat.
“I should say so,” Jenny winked at me, “But don't feel bad. You're making progress!”

That was the kind of love Jenny brought to interactions. Still, I had my own bed back; I was able to wheel myself around the house unaided, slopes and all; I could enjoy my friends’ company. I had enough things to feel privileged compared to Nichole. Christmas 2011 was bittersweet since I was still a common cripple, but I was a loved cripple who was slowly healing, inside and out. I had Jenny, known as the “Gangsta Princess,” and Nichole, the “Gangsta Queen,” back in my life. I hoped to one day include Hannah and Joy in that circle as well. Stories for later though.

After so much effort, the day came after Christmas break. Mom wheeled me out to the car; I slid myself into the passenger seat of the car; she collapsed the wheelchair and put it in the back; she drove us to the school; she reconstructed the wheelchair so I could slide back into it; I grabbed a small knapsack and knew what she wanted to do. I wheeled myself over to Jenny, who knew and waited for me in front of the school, and she pushed me up the wheelchair ramp. As we rounded the turn on the ramp, sure enough, Mom was standing by the car, crying, and filming it. The day had come: I had my life back.

“Here we are, Gangsta Friend,” Jenny held the door to Mudville-Savage High School for me.
“Tho it beginsh again. High thcool freshman year,” I propelled myself through the door.
“Let’s go!” and so began a new chapter of my recovery, and what a momentous chapter it was.
“Pssst,” Jenny giggled, “Just so you know, the school admin might object to your bandana.”
“But my hair!” my blood chilled at the thought, “I have a hat in my bag in cathe I get cold.”
“Alllll right, Casey. Get ready, because Jenny Kristensen has a need for speed.”

No running in the halls didn’t mean Jenny couldn’t walk with her cheerful, fast, hop-like gait she used when she was excited or extremely happy. It was the fastest I’d gone outside a car since the last time I’d ridden my skateboard. It was a brief journey, but it was tons of fun and didn’t draw one bit of ire because we were careful about our journey. Besides, too many people were staring in shock. Boy, was there a look of shock on that one girl’s face when I wheeled into homeroom.

“Good morning, Joy!” I wheeled past the girl who hated me, “It’th good to thee you!”
“What?!” Joy looked at me and Jenny with total disgust, “Find somewhere else to sit.”
“Joy Suzanne Fredericks!” when Jenny pulls out the full names, look out, “Fine. We will.”
“I thought you loved Jethuth. Gueth I was wrong,” I said sadly and fought my desire to cry.

Just like that, my triumphant but humble return had turned into a curb-stomping. She’d had two opportunities now to accept an olive branch. This wasn’t just contempt—it was hatred. There’s a difference between establishing boundaries and dehumanizing someone. I couldn’t believe that she would say something like that right in front of Jenny, but Jenny, Nichole, and I sat elsewhere.

Jenny and Nichole exchanged many whispers throughout the day. It was odd jumping into all of the classes mid-year, but I was ready for the challenge to both catch up and learn in my own way. I wasn’t scared of it after 6 months of physical therapy. I was sitting in the classroom wearing a diaper for crying out loud! Ha ha! I was afraid of Joy’s crap when I had plenty of my own right in my own pants—sorry, diaper humor. You develop these humorous takes so that things aren’t as gross as they really are. It’s not a coping mechanism; it’s more for those around you.

When Mom picked me up that afternoon, I of course told her how Joy had ruined my day. She was more than understanding of how challenging that must have been, but she beamed with pride when I told her how I had responded and even reached a restroom without soiling myself. That’s what determination did for me. I knew my bowel control wasn’t perfect yet by any means, and I only needed the nurse to help me clean up afterwards. It’s sad—sad this was reality—but it was amazing to see how much progress I’d made. I was finally exceeding expectations.

“Jenny, thank you tho much for doing thith for me,” I said during our morning routine.
“I’m just waiting for the day you tell me to take the stairs and wheel yourself up the ramp,” she said with her infectious smile, “If it makes you feel better, today I’m wearing a bandana under my hat, too. You, me, and Nichole—our solidarity in your recovery, Gangsta Friend.”
“Thank you,” I nodded despite the bitter cold of the winter, knowing I had a trick up my sleeve.
“Casey, do you have a question?” our homeroom teacher asked when she saw a look on my face.
“No, no, questions,” I forced myself to stand up with enough effort, despite my legs wobbling, “I jutht wanted to thay that I’m happy to be here, even if not everyone’s happy to thee me back.”
“Nice burn,” Nichole whispered to me around the roar and applause of my trick.

And on the other side of the room, a certain girl’s face lost all of its color. But, friends first. It was on my way to my first class that a more cheerful reunion took place.

“Oh, my gosh!” I saw that pale blonde girl, Miss Hannah Larsson, coming over, “You’re back!”
“Where were you yethterday when I was here?” I asked in surprise since she seemed shocked.
“Ha ha! Sorry,” she sniffed a little, “I had a cold over the break. I’m not contagious now.”
“Good to see you. I’m headed to Algebra 2. And you?”
“Biology. I’ll see you at some point though,” Hannah patted me on the head and left.
“Careful,” Nichole said to me once we were at a distance, “She’s a druggie now.”
“What?!” I felt my heart shatter at the mere thought of an original Cool Girl being a junkie.

I’m not going to focus on Hannah for now. Her story and my story are intertwined, but she made her choices despite my warnings. Pop even warned me when I talked to him about Hannah. She was one of those crooks—the ones the police are just desperate to catch red-handed. There was no bagging her, though, because she was super clever. She spoke and texted in code, never carried any product, used a burner phone, etc. I could hear the sadness in Pop’s voice.

Still, I had a Joy problem that came to a head soon. Joy and Nichole worked at the local grocery store as baggers and cashiers for their own income; Jenny didn’t work because her parents were more than comfortable, financially. She wasn’t spoiled, but she didn’t work either. There’s a lot more to this—let it suffice that Jenny didn’t work. I was sitting on the sofa, playing video games with Jenny on Saturday afternoon when Jenny’s phone rang. I heard Nichole’s voice in a panic.

“Jenny, stop and sit down. Joy and I were riding our bikes to Wal-Mart when a nut came flying at 60 miles per hour through the red light at Southbridge and 21. He hit Joy!” Nichole started crying, “And we’re on our way to the hospital. There’s an awful lot of blood all over 21 now.”
“Oh, my God! No!” I heard the distressed squeak in Jenny’s voice, “I’ll be right there!”
“I’m praying,” I immediately said without any second thoughts, “Dear Jethuth, please look after your thervant, Joy. Lord, please help her through this, because if she…,” I suddenly realized the implications if Joy died without setting things right with me and Hannah, “Be with her mom and dad and thithter, Lord,” and I turned and saw the look on Pop’s face.
“Casey, you’re such a good girl,” he smiled brightly, “You glow with the joy of Jesus.”
“I’m sorry to leave so suddenly, but I know Nichole will freak without me,” Jenny jumped up.
“Tell Joy I thtill love her,” I said to Jenny with a gaze that stirred her soul in a good way.
“I absolutely will do that. I’m sad she doesn’t understand the vow she took,” a tear rolled down her cheek, “We’re Cool Girls. Even you took that vow last month. Maybe she’ll change.”

The next day at school was hard on me and Jenny. Nichole had remained at the hospital long after Jenny had left, and with cause. Joy had bled a lot from what we knew, but test after test had been performed. Nichole used an excused absence but didn’t tell either me or Jenny why. It was humility, as it turned out. At lunch time, I saw a familiar face, that of Zoe Fredericks, Joy’s older sister, and Jenny and I sat down with our fellow Cool Girl in a controlled, safe environment.

“Hi,” I said to Zoe, “How’s your thithter? I’m thorry,” I took her hand; she started to pull away.
“I…,” she looked up at me, saw my gaze, and let me hold her hand, “Nichole saved Joy’s life.”
“What?! What did Nichole do besides call 9-1-1?” Jenny asked in confusion and surprise.
“Joy’s O-negative, but Nichole happens to be O-negative too even though none of us are!”
“God is good and anthered our prayerth,” I nodded in a positive way, “What did Nichole do?”
“She gave her blood to Joy!” Zoe’s eyes were aglow, “Are you Casey Clark by any chance?”
“Wow!” Jenny squeaked so happily, “Nichole’s such a good person! My soul sister!”
“Yesh, Zoe,” I adjusted my position, “I’m Cathey. Did thomeone thay thomething about me?”
“Yeah… Joy said she wanted you to know she’s sorry for how she treated you in homeroom,” Zoe was choking back her own tears, “And that she knew you were praying for her before any of us told her. What happened to the bully I met last winter?” she seemed confused by everything.
“Maybe you’ve heard about me inthtead as the girl who had a thtroke latht thummer.”

Zoe and I exchanged a hug—a meaningful hug—right there in the dining hall. I had the support of the one person left who could convince Joy that I had genuinely changed for the better.

Zoe believed in me. Jenny and Nichole had seen it first hand. Even Joy understood that her rage towards me had been playing with hell fire. Now she was injured, having lost lots of blood from a careless driver. I sat there in the dining hall, and the three of us held hands and prayed for Joy to find both physical and spiritual healing. I didn't know Zoe well, but I could tell she had honor.

“You really are the Gangsta Friend,” Jenny said to me the next day when Mom dropped me off.
“Yeah, but… Jenny, take the stairs today,” I told her and faced the wheelchair ramp head on.

I gritted my teeth and dug myself into the wheelchair. I propelled myself and then quickly had to grab the wheels with my hands to stop myself from rolling backwards. Up one ramp—patience. I knew I could do this. I started crying—pride at the triumph—sadness at reality. With patience and faith, I went up the second ramp and found myself on flat ground. I’d made it. I’d made it!

“Oh, Casey! I just love you!” Jenny gave me a hug while snowflakes began falling around us.

That afternoon, I came home to find a cake baked by my mother to celebrate the moment.

[AlexUSA3]

@Caesar73, @hafnermg, @harveygasson, @Lucky Lottie, @tiedinbluetights, @TamatoaShiny123, @Canuck100, @GermanTUGFriend, @Dreamerforever2004, @Mineira1986, @TklToy, @Windrunner, @Alisonlovesropes, @Gaggedcowgirl, @beeblebrox883, @lanadelgagged, @DommeKirsten, @LunaDog, @GreyLord, @charliesmith, @silvertejp590, @SquidIncMaster, @Switcher1313, @The G-Man, @Phantomette, @0Kay, @Yewteed, @Kinky_boi, @johopp, @Bilmik, @Shotrow, @TapeTurtle, @Bandit666, @algebrauk, @milagros317, @Hywok, @Monty, @Jjdeel600, @chelseykittyc@t, @StrugglingSue, @PenelopeRopes

Bound and Gagged (?/F) - Chapter 7

“Mom, may I go to church with Jenny?” I asked when I got home from school one Friday.
“Why? Don't you want to go to our church and see Jessica?” Mom asked me in a sad tone.
“Melissa gave me the cold shoulder,” I spoke of the pastor's daughter, “I’m not wanted.”

I meant it. I tried. I extended an apology, and she not only never accepted my apology but also had turned into a gossip. I was unwelcome in my church's own youth group, and whispers went around suggesting that the stroke was God’s punishment for challenging the pastor’s daughter. I can't change the fact that she couldn't tell a kazoo from a piano or a guitar.

“Hannah, not so soon,” Mom decided, “You don't have to go to youth activities though.”
“All right. I can accept that,” I smiled, “As long as I don't have to deal with Melissa’s cliques.”
“I’m not opposed to Jenny. It's just I don't think you should until you can walk on your own.”
“Ohhhhhh,” now I understood, “You don't want me to be a burden to them. I understand.”
“Casey, I’m proud of you for so proactively wanting the best for your soul.”
“Thanks, Mom. I’ll make the most of it. For Jessica's sake. Because she's my friend.”

Jessica and I had goals. Big goals. Walking. This was the milestone that came next. Standing had been accomplished, but moving was different and difficult. Basically, my brain either forgot everything or my muscles had weakened and needed strength. Thus, repetition was necessary to recover the small motions—fingers, toes, speech, etc. It was easier to ride the stationary bike—I knew I could do it though, Take the step; plant the foot. Balancing was hard too. It's one thing to walk—but keeping balance was hard. Jessica said I might ride a bike unaided before I walk.

During the days after the accident, Joy was hospitalized. During the last week, she came to class and avoided all of us out of shame. There was the concern with Hannah, too. I knew Joy would come around, but would Hannah? Jenny planned a trap though, inviting Joy and me to her house on Saturday—she didn't tell Joy I’d be there though. The Gangsta Princess was sneaky! She had a plan to mend the broken relationship. What a good, sweet person—and so lovable!

“Hi, Gangsta Friend,” Zoe motioned for me to get in the car, “I’ll load your chair into the car.”
“Thank you so much,” I looked at her cheerful outfit, “For taking to time to hang out with us.”
“I have my own friends,” she smiled, “but I’m not one of those girls who's too cool to be with younger kids. Am I gangsta enough for you?” she pointed to her bright yellow bandana.
“Yes, yes,” I laughed, “You look better in bright colors than Joy,” and I got in the car.
“I’m happy you asked me to be part of this,” she admitted, “Let's get pizza for this, too.”
“Sweet! I like pizza! We have it a lot since I can eat it on my own,” I smiled at her.
“Casey, I’m sorry I just stayed away instead of mediating a year ago,” her regret was obvious.

Going to get pizza was easy. I just waited in the car while she went inside to pick it up. Pizza’s role was that of the icebreaker to make Joy comfortable. This was a big adventure, going over to a friend's house without Mom or Pop bringing me there. I hadn't been away from them like this in a long time, and I couldn't believe it was real. Zoe kindly pushed me up the slope to the door. It's a memory I cannot forget, the day Zoe proved herself to embody the Cool Girl vows. A Gangsta Friend was pushed by a genuinely good human, a true gem… a Gangsta Gem! Yes!

I had a black bandana, and Gangsta Gem had yellow. At the door, Nichole, Gangsta Queen, had her classic icy blue bandana, and Jenny, Gangsta Princess, had camouflage. And there, far away on the sofa, was Joy, the girl about to become the Gangsta Girl, with a purple bandana. I briefly worried about Hannah Bandana, but I realized that perhaps Nichole was right after all.

“What a sight for sore eyes,” I felt the tears in my eyes when I wheeled myself over to Joy.
“Oh, no!” Joy hid herself underneath a quilt, “You probably hate me for what I did, don't you?”
“Oh, Joy,” I slid myself onto the sofa, “Don't be silly. I’m sorry for what I did a year ago.”
“I’m sorry for two weeks ago,” she replied, and she looked into my eyes, “Forgive me?”
“Well, hmmm, do you forgive me? It doesn't matter because I forgave you the same day.”
“Really?” she sat up and got closer to me, “I’m… You… Casey, I’ve been such a jerk to you!”
“This is so wonderful!” Jenny jumped, “I thought you'd fight, but look at you two!”
“Thanks to the Gangsta Gem,” I motioned to Zoe, “Without her, this wouldn't be happening.”
“Oh, then, what am I?” Joy was in control of herself, but pleasantly surprised, “My nickname.”
“The Gangsta Girl, because you're the most feminine one of us all and the baby of the group,” I said with a mischievous gleam, “I’m glad we both survived so we could make amends.”

The reunification was complete… mostly. I was a cripple; Joy had a broken leg; Nichole was on the mend from donating blood to Joy but fine. Yes, it was up to Nichole and Jenny to symbolize our little gathering… by binding and gagging Zoe after we finished with the pizza. As funny as it sounds, I was hoping to talk my friends into doing something simple for me, to celebrate with a small return to real TUGs in a way I knew wouldn't upset Mom and Pop. You’ll see soon.

Jenny and Nichole together were able to put Zoe in some secure ropes, though, and they shut her up fairly nicely. It's not how she was tied that matters but that there was a joyful glow she shined much like Jenny usually did. No one understood how momentous this occasion was for me like she did. I’m not saying Jenny and Nichole weren't a big part, but Zoe arrived at the perfect time in the perfect role to see it. She was happy because of my recovery. glad to see the new me, and ebullient over her sister’s spiritual progress towards forgiving me. That's why Joy and I shared a wonderful Zoe stuffie, since she was tied and gagged so well that she was like a stuffed animal.

“Jenny,” I asked, happy to have only a little slush in my speech now, “Would you… tie me up?”
“I can only imagine what this moment must mean to you!” Jenny happy jumped up, “Sure!”
“Casey, may I gag you?” Nichole asked, “I think only a cleave gag for this first time back.”
“I only want my wrists, ankles, and thighs tied anyway. I don't move much,” I laughed a bit.
“Actually, Nichole, I think Joy should be the one to gag Casey,” Jenny suggested, “Last time Casey was in a CGC activity was when you and Joy tied her up a year ago.”
“But does Joy want to do it?” I turned, my face radiant as I looked at Joy, and she felt it.
“Yes, sure,” she finally smiled from her own happiness, “I’d be honored to fix the past.”

Simple bondage for a girl who was simply helpless. Jenny tied my legs; Nichole tied my wrists; Joy cleave gagged me with a white bandana. How thoughtful of her to choose a white bandana as my gag. It was like a little white flag of our mutual surrender to our morals and beliefs. The journey of my spiritual recovery had officially come full circle. I was truly a Cool Girl again.

My mind wandered to Nichole during that game. I was free from my mental bondage and slowly escaped the physical bondage of the stroke. Nichole was trapped, helpless, and secretly scared in her mental bondage, and hers had no light at the end of the tunnel. The CGC was all she had that was truly hers in life. We were her safety and her joy. I couldn't imagine how she felt.

People like Nichole encouraged me to persevere and keep trying—to be a symbol for her. What I did and how I handled my captivity could inspire her within her own trap. She saw me lifting weights, riding the stationary bike, doing pushups, and working with Casey. My determination to succeed could be seen and felt by all, and I had to keep trying my best for her as well as Mom and Pop and myself. I had a grandmother, an uncle, and cousins looking to me as well. I was the source of hope to so many others, and I didn't want to waste that or betray that trust.

“Mmmmmmm!” finally, a year almost to the day, I was finally again a damsel-in-distress.
“Look at how happy Casey and Zoe are. Isn’t God so good?!” Jenny observed us struggling.
“Yeah,” Joy nodded and blushed while looking down at the ground, “Better late than never.”
“Joy, I’m so proud of you,” Nichole ruffled Joy’s hair, “in so many ways this winter.”
“Ha ha!” I laughed into my simple gag, but I could see Nichole was mentally bound right now.
“Oh, Nichole Blakely, I do love you,” Joy was finally in her element at this moment.

I must explain here that Joy knew too much at this point in our lives. Joy and I both knew more than a 16 year-old should know about Nichole’s suffering. Joy’s mother was a youth counselor, a professional at listening to kids like Nichole. Thus, every mother in Nichole’s inner circle knew what was happening to her, and apparently Joy and her mother had seen what I had seen. We did all we could, but it was truly a tragic position we held in Nichole’s life. I wasn’t allowed to say a word to Nichole about it, but Joy and Zoe? They were the only spot on earth where Nichole was safe to bury her face in a friend and cry about what was happening to her. She even had a secret second cell phone that no one in her family even knew she possessed. This was serious, and we had a secret network that finally had to act one day. But, that was 2015; my story is in 2012.

Jenny, blissfully innocent Jenny, didn’t see it or know it. I knew it. Joy knew it. Mom and Pop knew it. Zoe knew it. Joy and Zoe’s Mom knew. Nichole lived it. Jenny’s parents knew. But Jenny didn’t know it. It was hidden from her because we all knew she’d be broken by it if she found out. She was too attached to Nichole, and the only person who could break such news to Jenny without ruining her forever was the victim—Nichole’s psychological bondage.

“Ha ha!” I was truly helpless with my fingers still being so relatively useless.
“Now, girls, we’ll have to untie you, because I made a scrumptious apple cobbler,” Jenny smiled.
“Oh, Henny, yuh -ade ah hahorite!” now my speech was good even while gagged.
“Casey Clark, you’re such a gem!” the little girl squeezed my cheek and unknotted the gag.
“That was good, but it’s time for me to get out of this anyway. Friends, would you, please?”
“Ha ha!” Zoe’s eyes were aglow because Joy was the joy of her life—pun intended.

In 2025, writing this story, I’m glad Texas Governor Greg Abbott had not yet been dubbed “Hot Wheels” because Jenny made a joke about pushing my wheelchair being like a Hot Wheels car. I am not, at all—of course, I wouldn’t—encouraging ableist insults and slurs. But, I was fun like a toy car, but I was a person who brought a lot more happiness to a room than the toy car. But, she is the girl who dreams of working for a Formula 1 team, so the car jokes are always expected.

“How was your evening at Jenny’s?” Mom asked me before bed, “Did you get to play?”
“Yes, Mom,” I took off my bandana and handed it to her while putting on my PJ’s, “It was fun.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” she smiled broadly, “It’s good to see my child be herself again.”
“Ha ha!” I pulled on my own pajama legs before wheeling over to the mirror, “Mom… do you,” I am trying not to get ahead of myself, “Do you think I’m ready for a haircut finally?”
“Give it a couple of weeks, and I think you will be ready for that,” she took my laundry from me.
“Oh, finally! No more hats and scarves except when I want to wear them!” I was so happy!

Two weeks later, the day came. Mom and I told no one outside the home. We went after dinner to our local salon, and they kindly accommodated my needs. I wheeled out of there with my pale blonde locks in a perfectly even bob, just the right length for me to look pretty again. As soon as we got home, I cried though. What kind of prisoner was I to have lost my hair? Me? A stroke?! It seemed unreal, but reality was finally becoming beautiful—I had hair and friends again! What a joy it was, and I took selfies to send to my cousins.

“Casey! Look at you!” Jenny bounded over when Mom dropped me off at school the next day.
“I’m pretty again!” I said it, and I meant it only in the external sense, but Jenny saw more.
“Yes, but you’re pretty on the inside again, too. That matters so much more!” she hugged me.
“Gangsta Princess, I do love you so very, very much!” I returned the embrace—with strength!