The concrete hit my palms first.
Then my shoulder. Then my head.
Not hard enough to black out—just hard enough to make the sky spin while fifty people stood around me like I was entertainment.
My wheelchair lay tipped on its side, one wheel still turning.
My brother Tyler stood over me, smirking like he’d finally won something.
“Stop pretending for sympathy,” he sneered.
And like the world had lost its mind, people laughed.
Nervous laughter. Cruel laughter. The kind that pretends it’s “just a joke” so nobody has to feel guilty.
I tried to push myself up, but my right leg was twisted wrong—pain sparking up my spine like electricity.
Still, nobody moved to help.
Then Tyler raised his voice for the crowd.
“He’s been milking this wheelchair thing for two years,” he announced, like he was exposing a scam.
The chanting started like a sick game.
“Stand up. Stand up. Stand up.”
I couldn’t.
And that’s when I heard it.
Not shouting. Not rage. Just authority.
Five calm words that cut through the yard like a blade:
“That is my patient. Stop.”
The laughter died instantly.
Keep reading to see who was standing behind them—and why my brother’s face changed from smug to sick in seconds 👇
