Not Saving You Twice, Dad

The crash was deafening. Blood sprayed through the air in an instant.

I stood less than ten feet away, watching every second of it.

"Help... somebody help me..."

My father, Victor Carrington, lay pinned beneath the wheels, screaming. His legs were caught between the crumpled hood and the guardrail, mangled beyond recognition.

I looked down at my own two legs, perfectly intact, and felt nothing but satisfaction. This time around, he was the one who would never walk again.

In my last life, I had thrown myself in front of that truck to save him and spent the rest of my days in a wheelchair for it. I thought that kind of sacrifice would earn his sympathy, but all it earned me was his disgust.

He said having me show up to events in a wheelchair was an embarrassment to the Carrington name, so he wasted no time bringing his mistress, Monica Lane, and their son, Brandon, into our home. He let them take my room and cut off my rehabilitation medication.

When Monica framed my mother and had her committed to a psychiatric facility where she was tormented until she died, all Victor said was, "She was crazy. At least it's quiet now."

In the end, Brandon locked me in a basement that reeked of rot, and I starved to death in the dark. As I lay dying, I could hear the banquet hall upstairs where Victor was hosting a lavish gala to announce Brandon as his sole heir.

I would never forget the cold and despair I felt.

"Mr. Arthur! Hurry, call 911! The chairman's trapped under the truck!"

The driver's screaming pulled me back to the present. I swallowed the hatred, put on a look of pure terror, and stumbled toward the wreck.

"Dad! Dad, hang on! I'm calling an ambulance right now!"

At Fairview General Hospital, the surgery light outside the emergency room stayed on for six straight hours before a grim-faced doctor finally pushed through the doors.

"Mr. Arthur, your father pulled through, but his condition is serious." He paused, his tone heavy.

"Both of his legs have comminuted fractures. The nerves and blood vessels are beyond saving, and the infection is widespread. If we don't amputate at the hip immediately, he won't survive the night."

"Amputation?" I looked up sharply, my voice trembling. "Is there really nothing else you can do? Even if he could just use a wheelchair..."

"He'd need legs for that." The doctor exhaled.

"We need to remove both legs from the hip joint. I need a family member's signature on the consent form right now. We can't wait any longer."

Both legs would be removed at the root. Victor would not even have the luxury of sitting in a wheelchair and turning the wheels himself.

"I'll sign." I took the pen without a second of hesitation and wrote my name on the consent form.

Victor woke up the day after the surgery. The moment he instinctively tried to move his legs and felt nothing beneath the blanket, his screaming filled the entire ward.

"My legs! Where are my legs?"

He slammed his fists against the bed frame, eyes wild, staring straight at me.