By Madison Bullard
“Wake up.”
The voice was disoriented. Darcy’s head was flooded, and the back of her eyes burned like the heat of a thousand suns.
Groggily, she opened her eyes. Looking around, she was in a clean tent, her tent, placed on a soft but small bed. Propped up on a mound of pillows, she was lying on her bed in the camp. The tent let in harsh sunlight, and she could turn her neck just enough to see a medic staring at her, surprise lighting up the nurses’ features.
“Oh, thank gods you’re awake! Doctor! General Darcy is awake!” She glanced at the herbs in her grip. “Take these, you’re going to need them to help your recovery.”
Recovery?
“What recovery?” Darcy’s voice was scratchy as the words left her mouth, the feeling of her tongue heavy.
“Oh dear…” Her light voice darkened at the end. “What is it?” Darcy forces out, desperation leaking out of her throat and pouring onto her words.
“Honey, what do you last remember?”
The moment she closed her eyes, she was instantly dragged into a memory, her mind fighting her and winning.
Screams, all she could hear were screams.The battlefield was horrifying. As she turned and watched her partner fall at the hand of the enemy, pain erupted from Darcy’s back and she screamed, the sounds mixing with the cries of soldiers fighting. Falling down, her crew dragged her motionless body towards their ranks, her limbs stiff before she blacked out.
Gasping, she resurfaced, glancing down at her body, to realize she couldn’t feel her body. Everything below her waist was stiff and still. Darcy stared at the nurse with horror, whispering, “What happened?”
The nurse looked uncomfortable while moving to the side of the bed to bring a glass of water to Darcy’s lips. Urging her to drink, she said, “Drink this, it will help your throat.”
“I don’t want water. I want answers to why I can’t feel a single muscle in my body.”
The nurse looked around nervously, glancing back at the door, “I’m sorry dear, I can’t disclose that information yet. The doctor will have to tell you when he arrives. Now drink.”
She reluctantly took a sip of the water, relishing the coolness as it pacified her throat. She sat in contempt as the nurse soon left, leaving to fetch the doctor.
Waiting, she couldn’t help but examine her limbs. Her legs were hidden underneath a thin sheet, her arms… Her arms?
She was covered in cuts and bruises from the battle, attempting to lift her arm, expecting to feel even the slightest twitch. Darcy’s sore arm lifted on her command, but her legs…
In defeat, she sighed. Going back to staring at the tent walls, counting the seconds until the doctor arrived with the horrifying news.
3 Days Later
Darcy hated being confined to her chair.
The humiliation from being one of the best generals. A 4 star general shouldn’t be forced to be nothing more than a sympathetic sight. She was allowed to run through the front lines, listen to important information first hand, and created a bond with those soldiers under my command.
The constant looks of worry, the desperate glances as she rolled past on her wheelchair. It infuriated her. Hating herself wasn’t on Darcy’s to-do list nor was accepting other’s sympathy. She just wanted to be as normal as possible.
The old Darcy.
She was moved to the strategies tent after relentless arguing, after which she was finally admitted access. Before her time as a general, she was a decent strategist. When she exceeded all her peers in that department, her ranking rose with her skill. She urged to feel the rush of excitement as she went into battle. Instead she was left behind while others risked everything to protect their country.
Even as nightmares plagued her, she wanted to go back into the front lines. She wanted to fight, to be worth something.
As she wheeled herself to the tent, the shame burned through Darcy. She had no reason to feel shame, but the weight of the stares flushed her cheeks, casting her gaze down.
When she reached the tent, all the high officials gazed at her for what seemed like years. Steeling her mental walls, she coldly prompted, “What are you staring at? Get on with the meeting.”
The men and women around the room quickly looked away, staring down at the maps. Darcy quickly wheeled towards the nearest map, the others looking at everything but her, terrified of her dark glares.
“What are the statistics so far? Death counts? Battles we’ve conquered? Land we took? What are our numbers here?”
“What?” Lieutenant Jennifer questioned.
“Wait,” Darcy pressed, “You’re telling me that you have no idea what you’re doing?”
“Uh-no. We know what we are do-”
“Idiots. All you are complete fools.” She jerked her chin towards the maps. “No wonder we keep losing the war when none of you have the correct information to make a strategy!”
All of them in the room cowered. Even as they stood above her, the intensity of her gaze turned their heads down.
“Now,” Darcy grumbled, “Let me get a reading of the papers.”
Two months later…
It was the middle of the night. The battle had been going on for eight days straight. All the soldiers were tired, injured, the fighting spirit beaten out of them. Darcy stared at them. Pity and longing mixed deep inside her eyes.
The strategies tent after that fruitless day didn’t stop the mass murders. Day after day soldiers came back more worn. Food supplies were running low and her paralysis wasn’t getting any better. Her strategies were ignored constantly. She was still considered too ‘fragile’ and ‘weak’. In their minds, just because she could make strategies and battle plans, didn’t mean she was capable enough to form a war winning strategy. Because of her paralysis, no matter how much she tried to look tougher, she would always be lesser to them.
She hated them.
Now she sat in front of 1000 or more soldiers, all of them with looks of defeat and despair. The other lieutenants had given up, not even bothering to show up to formation. It made Darcy’s blood boil. Here, she was not even able to move on her own and they couldn’t bother to get up from their bed rolls.
As she stared into the eyes of countless men and women fighting for their lives, something snapped. She saw herself as one of those souls, staring back at her with dead eyes.
“Listen up,” She demanded, “All of you here need to get in order and go under my command.” Even as she said it, she felt out of control.
“Look who’s talking, the general that got injured in one of her own strategies!” Someone in the crowd shouted, and a murmur of unease swept through the crowd.
Dacry’s heart ached. She was telling herself that every night, but hearing it from someone else made her insides heat up with fury.
“Shut up, soldier! You have no idea what you are talking about.”
“We got a pretty good understanding. You mope around because you aren’t fighting anymore, but we are! We are out there dying while you wish you were one of us! Well general Darcy, if I were in your shoes, I would be happy that I can relax, take a break from the deaths and relish in how I don’t have to watch my friends die!”
The words quickly die in my mouth, whatever rebuttal I had dying with those words. I really did mope around all this time, didn’t I?
“Listen soldiers. Sometimes I wish to be out in the front lines, yes. Do I wish I could replace you? Yes. But that’s because I can’t stand the thought of all of you risking your lives while I’m stuck behind. I have a battle strategy that will stop the death, stop the bloodshed. But in order to win, you need to follow my command. So please, listen to me unless you really want to see all your friends die further.”
A murmur went through the soldiers, then silence.
“Good, let’s get started shall we?”
A couple hours later…
As Darcy’s mind revealed in winning the war, thanks to her strategy, she was still stuck on this ever growing hatred of herself. How could she have let something so simple as her self doubt blind her from other things? She let herself drown in her thoughts.
Darcy allowed herself to think she was dysfunctional and not good enough, when she should have realized that being paralyzed didn’t drop her self worth, didn’t stop her from being herself.
It didn’t matter that she was in a wheelchair, nor did it matter about her paralysis. She was proud of all the work she accomplished as a general, but even more proud of how she managed to save her entire army.
She gave them the plan and they managed to defeat the opposing side without her.
Being the reason that our side won, she felt proud, important. And what that faceless soldier told her about how pathetic she was changed something. She was herself, smart, tactical, and paralyzed.
Realizing that she was enough because of this war let a strange feeling settle inside her.
Not uncomfortable. It felt like she finally fit all the pieces in the right place.
She didn’t need to feel ashamed of who she was.
Because she was perfectly imperfect the way she was.
