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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/mortanx on 2026-06-05 15:14:58+00:00.

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I've been a prisoner in my own body for eighteen years. That's a long time for anyone. Especially for someone like me.

I was sixteen when my older brother became successful.

Hanry was eight years older than me. As the firstborn, my parents always expected a lot from him. And to his credit, he delivered.

At twenty-four, he started a home renovation company with a few of his friends. To everyone's surprise, they became successful within six months. Bigger contracts started rolling in. The work was brutal, but the money was good.

That's how I ended up owning a shiny silver Yamaha R3 at sixteen.

Technically, the paperwork was in Hanry's name. But the bike was mine.

It didn't take long for me to become popular at school. My brother was making serious money and helping out my parents, and me, in every way he could.

Who wouldn't want a rich new friend?

I remember that night.

Every detail of it.

Amy invited me to the beach. Almost everyone from my class was there. Everyone who mattered. And of course, what else was a sixteen-year-old kid supposed to ride to a beach party where the hottest girl in school personally invited him?

The Yamaha.

I never made it there. One bad line through a turn. A little too much speed.

What sixteen-year-old boy thinks about danger when his whole life is ahead of him and the prettiest girl in school wants him at her party?

I drifted into the oncoming lane and hit a family SUV head-on.

Thankfully, nobody was hurt except me.

The doctors told me that if I hadn't been wearing my helmet, I would've died.

Sometimes I wonder if that would've been better. I was in critical condition anyway.

Almost every bone in my body was broken or fractured. I had internal bleeding. Then the doctors determined that my C4 spinal cord had been damaged so severely that I would never move again.

Not ever.

The whole process lasted about a year and a half. Treatments. Rehabilitation. Specialists. Doctors. Therapists. Everyone trying to force life back into a body that no longer wanted to cooperate. Into the muscles and bones of a teenage boy who couldn't move.

The best they managed was a slight amount of movement in my right shoulder. Just enough that I can turn my head a little and look in either direction. That's it. The whole thing was hell.

My mom cried constantly. My dad was always quiet. And Hanry… Hanry never came to see me. Mom always told me he would. That he just needed time.

But I don't think he could bring himself to look at me. I don't think he could meet my eyes and tell me he was sorry. I hated him back then.

Not just him. Everyone. The whole world.

I was a helpless cripple whose father still had to bathe him and carry him to the toilet while he was almost eighteen years old.

I wanted to die. I was depressed. I had violent outbursts.

And honestly?

It would've been better if I'd died on that winding road leading to the beach.

But that's not what happened.

The world doesn't work like that. Some people deserve to die and keep living. Some people deserve to live and end up dead. And then there's me. The guy who would've chosen death if he'd been given the option. The years passed. My parents got older. And eventually, Hanry finally worked up the courage to face me.

I still remember the first time he walked into my room. The look on his face. The way he fought back tears. He just stood there like a stranger. No hug. No words. Nothing.

I thought he was disgusted by me. By what I looked like. By what I'd become.

After that, though, he started visiting once a month.

He was always dressed well. Every year the suits got nicer. Even his cologne smelled expensive. I hated him. I genuinely hated Hanry.

Why did he get to be the successful one? The rich one? The businessman with a future?

While I was left with this. With misery.

Mom always defended him whenever I lashed out.

She'd remind me that Hanry paid for my treatments. Everything. The devices that made my life a little easier to live.

He even hired caregivers so my aging parents wouldn't have to carry me around like dead weight.

But I didn't care.

Maybe Hanry cared about me. Or maybe he just didn't mind spending money on me.

Back then, I couldn't tell the difference. That angry, bitter version of me lasted well into my twenties.

Some days were worse than others.

There were times I was impossible to deal with. Times when I refused to eat because I hoped maybe I'd finally die.

Nobody ever let me. Eventually, I accepted things. Or at least, I accepted them as much as someone like me can.

I started seeing psychologists and therapists. Hanry paid for those too.

And slowly, I started getting better. One therapist told me something that stuck with me.

If I couldn't change my body, maybe I should focus on changing my mind.

That was still mine. So I started reading.

With help, obviously, but I educated myself. Eventually I found psychology. I devoured everything I could get my hands on. And because of my situation, I ended up specializing in trauma psychology.

I earned a degree. But I didn't want to stop there. I started working toward a doctorate.

And then my father died.

It hit all of us hard. Not just me. I could see it in Hanry too. Especially because Dad never got the chance to meet his grandchildren. By then, Hanry had married a wonderful woman named Rose.

Sometimes he'd tell me about her. About how happy she made him. How much he loved her. And despite everything… I was happy for him. Bitter. Jealous. But happy. He deserved happiness. What happened to me wasn't his fault.

But the person my father's death hit the hardest was my mother. And God, I'm ashamed of myself for this… I hated myself.

How could I have been so blind?

Mom got worse and worse after Dad was gone. And Hanry wasn't just paying for my care anymore. He was paying for hers too.

I tried finding work myself so I wouldn't have to depend on him forever. By that point, he was supporting his own family and, on top of that, taking care of my mother and me.

Finding work wasn't exactly easy in my situation.

Sometimes I'd write psychology articles. Other times I'd provide online counseling for patients dealing with severe trauma. But none of it paid enough for me to contribute much.

Then Mom died too. It didn't take long. She followed Dad. And just like that, I was alone in the family house. Or at least I would've been. Hanry hired a live-in caregiver for me.

Sarah was a kind forty-two-year-old Filipino woman. She'd come to America with her husband and their three children.

I never would've thought someone could be genuinely happy about helping a guy like me use the bathroom, but Sarah was grateful to finally have steady work.

And Hanry paid her well.

Sarah and I… Well, we got along.

Even with the language barrier. Her English wasn't great, which occasionally led to some interesting misunderstandings, but she was always patient and polite.

Even on my bad days. Because no matter how much you learn about yourself, no matter how much therapy you go through, everyone has days when they sink into a dark place. Even normal people.

After my parents were gone, Hanry started visiting less and less. I understood why.

He was busy. He had another child. His company had grown far beyond what he'd originally started, and he always seemed glued to his phone.

Sometimes he and his family would come visit. Those visits were always awkward.

Especially when Sarah wasn't around and I had to ask them for help with basic things.

It felt like they weren't the guests. I was. Eventually, Hanry and I settled into a routine.

If I needed something, I'd call him. Or we'd just talk for a few minutes.

Most of the time, though, he barely had time for that. Sometimes he'd only stay on the phone for a minute or two.

Sometimes he wouldn't call me back for days. And little by little, I started feeling that familiar emptiness creeping back into my life. Like none of it mattered. Then came the final twist of the knife.

One day, after five years, Sarah told me she was leaving town. Her husband had been offered a good job in another state. And just like that, I was about to be alone again.

"Kiddo..." Hanry said, finally looking up from his phone. "Sarah was good, yeah. But she's not the only caregiver on Earth."

I hated when he called me that. Kiddo. As if we were still children.

I was thirty-six years old. A helpless quadriplegic with a degree in psychology.

Not some teenager.

"Yeah, Hanry, I know." I sighed. "But I'm stuck in this house like a ghost. And now the only person who actually spent time with me is leaving."

I saw something twitch beneath the lines on his face.

Guilt, maybe. Then he pulled himself together and typed something into his phone.

"I spend time with you." Hanry patted my numb shoulder as he walked past me. "But listen. I already found you another caregiver. This one's a guy. Around your age, I think. You'll probably get along."

"Hanry..." I glared at him. "I don't need a buddy."

"I know. I know." He shook his head impatiently. "But hold on. I have to take this."

Just like that, the conversation was over. He walked into the kitchen, already answering his phone.

I rolled my eyes. As decent as Hanry tried to be, I always had the feeling that deep down he saw me as a problem to manage.

Nothing more. A few minutes later he hurried back into the room.

"Kiddo," he said, already heading for the front door. "I can't stay and wait for the...

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