Regrets of a Broken Lion Family

Lion-kin cubs were born to run across the savanna. I hadn't run in three years.

The wooden push-rims of my wheelchair were worn smooth and shiny. On them rested the height marks my father had carved last year—I had grown taller again. But my legs remained the same slabs of flabby, dead flesh, dangling limply on the footrests.

Three years ago, my brother Targo broke his leg falling from the scout tree. He lay in our den, sulking. I wanted to make him laugh, so I mimicked his fall, hobbling around on a fake limp. He laughed. Mother saw it.

That night, she walked in carrying a clay bowl filled with dark green sap. The pungent stench made my eyes water.

"Drink." Her golden lion eyes narrowed into thin slits. "You mock another's pain, so you must taste it yourself."

I refused to drink. She pinched my jaw, prying the rim of the bowl past my teeth. The toxic sap poured down my throat, burning like a mouthful of glowing coals.

The next day, I lost all feeling in my legs.

Mother pushed the wheelchair in front of me. "When your heart aches for your brother Targo, you will stand up."

I sat in that chair for three years. I turned ten years old today.

Today was my birthday. I rolled the wheelchair over, brushing against her leg. "Mom, can I stop drinking the medicine?"

She glanced down at me, her tail giving a sharp flick. "You can't handle a mere three years? Your brother has to sit in a chair for the rest of his life!"

She pushed my brother's wheelchair outside. He looked back at me, his gaze shifting evasively. I followed them, keeping out of sight.

Outside the den, my brother hopped down from his wheelchair. Both his legs landed perfectly fine on the solid ground, and he bounced a couple of times. Mother wrapped an arm around his shoulder, lowering her voice—but lion-kin ears could hear a whisper from a hundred paces away.

"Don't feel sorry for your brother Balen. When he mocked your limp back then, he was rubbing salt in your wounds. Three years of poison is harsh, but a cold-blooded cub like him needs a hard lesson."

My brother kept his head down and said nothing.

I looked down at my own unresponsive legs. My brother's legs had healed long ago. This was my punishment, and Mother intended for it to be a permanent one.

In truth, I had secretly stopped taking the medicine a month ago. When Mother went out hunting, nobody forced me to drink it. The very first thing I did every morning was pinch my thighs. The first day, I felt nothing. The second day, the third day—still nothing. When she returned, I told her, "I'll drink it myself." She gave me a look and agreed.

She never knew I was pouring the toxic sap into the cracks in the floor and gulping down fresh water instead.

A month passed, and my legs still refused to move.

The poison had already run its full course. Drinking it or not didn't matter anymore. My legs were truly ruined.

I wheeled myself back into the den. Suddenly, my right hand went limp. My fingers lost their grip on the push-rim, and the entire arm dangled uselessly, like a slab of raw meat with a severed tendon.

I remembered the jar of antidote herbs in the cabinet. Once, Mother had poured too much poison down my throat, leaving me paralyzed on the floor, unable even to roll my eyes. Those herbs had slowly brought me back. If I ate them, I would get better.

I leaned forward to reach the clay jar. The moment my fingertips brushed its rim, it slid just out of reach. I leaned further, but the wheelchair rolled backward.

On my third attempt, a sudden dampness spread beneath me.

A warm current trickled down my legs, soaking right through my leather trousers. A small, yellowish puddle bloomed on the seat cushion. I froze for a few seconds before realizing what it was. I wished I could bury my face in the dirt.

I had stopped wetting the den when I was three. I was ten years old.

The urine kept flowing. My eyes burned red. I propped my left hand against the stone bed, desperately trying to pull myself up, but my right hand offered no support. I pushed, slipped, and pitched completely out of the wheelchair. My knees slammed against the stone floor. I felt nothing at all.

Sprawled on the ground, my mind snapped back to that jar of herbs. If I ate them, my hand would move again. I wouldn't wet my pants anymore.

I dragged my body toward the cabinet using only my left arm. My ribs scraped against loose gravel; every awkward lurch brought a wave of pain. I finally reached the clay jar and yanked it down, scattering herbs all over the floor. I grabbed a handful and shoved them into my mouth, chewing them dry and forcing them down. They scratched the inside of my throat raw.

My right hand remained limp. The dose wasn't enough. I needed to eat more.

I scooped up a few more handfuls, chewing frantically as a bitter juice dribbled down from my chin. My legs were still dead. My hand was still useless.

I tipped the last remaining contents of the jar directly into my mouth and swallowed. There was no improvement whatsoever. I dug my fingernails into my thighs, tearing bloody gouges into the flesh, yet feeling absolutely nothing.

It just hadn't taken effect yet. I needed to wait.

I let go of my waning strength and lay flat. A wave of nausea surged in my throat, but I couldn't throw up. My head spun wildly, and my vision began to double. I closed my eyes, convinced that a little sleep would fix everything.

Then, I woke up.

I was standing. My toes could move, and strength had returned to my right hand. Thrilled, I spun around—only to see a figure lying on the floor. His face was ashen gray, green herb residue clinging to the corners of his mouth. His claws were curled tight. Utterly motionless.

That was me.

It turned out I hadn't gotten better.

I had died.