[ WP ] The old saying `` step on a crack , break your mother 's back '' is true for you . You 've lived your whole life avoiding the them entirely , until you ended up in a wheelchair .

I can ’ t go outside. 
 
 I ’ ve always known. It ’ s a deep feeling, in the gut, in the way you can tell the stench of death. One wrong step was all it would take. Sometimes, later, when words were spoken and fists pounded against cheap prefab walls, one right step. 
 
 I ’ d never done it. But now, I can ’ t go outside. 
 
 “ It ’ s a lovely day, ” says Karen, wheeling me to the window. She ’ s lying, of course. The third carer this year, Karen is a well-meaning one. As I look beyond the cracked glass with dull eyes, a few shriveled leaves tumble past and disappear from view. It has been six years since I ’ ve felt the wind. “ Should we go for a walk? ” 
 
 “ No. ” 
 
 Karen opens her mouth to say something, but I shut her down. I blurt it out. 
 
 “ I can ’ t touch the cracks. ” 
 
 “ Huh? ” 
 
 A silence as vast as a desert stretches before us, each second punctuated by the tick and tock of the clock my mother had bought me. 
 
 “ I can ’ t touch the cracks, ” I repeat, plunging on. “ I can ’ t touch the cracks in anything. ” 
 
 Karen, with a patience and a doe-eyed curiosity which makes me grind my teeth – how I wished we could swap places – continues. 
 
 “ Why not? ” She asks. 
 
 This was uncharted territory. I answer her, my voice stuttering and starting like the tap, tap, tap of a broken engine turning over. 
 
 “ S-She ’ ll – it ’ ll – it ’ s her back, ” I say, and at Karen ’ s silent question, I stagger on. “ My mother ’ s back. The cracks in the sidewalk. It ’ ll – they ’ ll – it ’ ll break. Her back, I mean. ” 
 
 I wave away Karen ’ s words as she opens her mouth. 
 
 “ I just know, okay? I do. Listen – do you hear the certainty in my voice? I am not crazy. The cracks will break her back. ” 
 
 “ Like the rhyme? ” 
 
 “ Like the rhyme. ” 
 
 “ Oh. ” 
 
 Silence again, now punctuated by my wheezing lungs after the torturous exertion of communication. 
 
 “ Okay, ” Karen finally says, her tone telling me she hasn ’ t listened to a word I ’ d said, “ so no walk? ” 
 
 “ No, no walk. ” 
 
 “ Okay. Coffee? ” 
 
 “ No. Goodbye, Karen. ” 
 
 “ Want to talk about something? ” 
 
 “ No. ” 
 
 “ Alright, ” Karen says, the relief clear in her voice. She smiles, and holds out her hands to cup mine. “ I ’ ll be round tomorrow. ” 
 
 With that, she leaves me and heads for the door. The wind flutters the tree outside the window. I can only imagine how it feels. A great wave of feeling comes over me. It is an ecstasy, a joy, a feeling of freedom that I haven ’ t felt in so long it feels like I ’ m dreaming. I ’ m whole again. I can step out of this chair and roam into the wind, into life. 
 
 Karen has stopped, and I see her scratching one hand with another. There ’ s some nasty, cracked skin – 
 
 I lean back in my chair, a great feeling of peace coming over me. Six years. Six years of this house, this room, this chair. Six years without the wind. 
 
 “ Actually, Karen, ” I say, twisting to face her, “ I would like that walk. ” 
 
 Karen claps her hands together in joy and wheels me to the door. We go outside. I can feel the wind. 
 
 Behind me, Karen narrows her eyes, and smiles. 
 
 Just like the rhyme.
