Overcoming My Limits

At only the age of 11, Blythe Mitchell had been caught up in a terrible situation. One her family recalls as "The Accident." Her right leg was considered paralyzed and all the nerves had died, but Blythe had hope. One doctor she had consulted told her that in several years, she may just walk again.
Now, at the age of 17, Blythe is still wheelchair bound and even more curious about her "accident." It seems as if everyone but her knows what happened those many years ago. Her seemingly over-protective mother keeps silent and no one, not even her loyal maid, Macy Matthews, will tell her a thing. Which lead to another mystery. Why did the Matthews' go bankrupt after her accident? Did it have anything to do with her family?

Questions keep appearing. Can Blythe find the answers? Will she find her past, or will she finally understand the danger she's in?


19. "maybe it was everytime you said, that i miss you" - ed sheeran

I slowly opened my eyes, my eyelids painfully heavy. My breath felt shallow as I inhaled the chill air. My vision was blurred and foggy and my limbs ached. I was so cold, but for some reason, I felt warmth. It was then that I noticed that someone was with me— holding me. I knew I was supposed to be frightened, but I was too tired and cold to separate from them.

“Blythe…” I could hear my voice floating by. I tried to reply, but my mouth wouldn’t move.

“Blythe, I’m so sorry…”

My brain buzzed with confusion. “Why?” I could hear my weak voice.

“Blythe?” I felt my body being shifted upright, causing my stomach to lurch and my head to pound. Everything around me was spinning wildly, but when the spinning finally stopped, my eyes settled on a familiar face.





“Brandon?” my voice came out like a whisper.

“Blythe,” he embraced me gently, holding me as close to him as possible.

“Am… Am I dead?” I asked, my face nuzzled into his neck. I could feel his heart racing.

“No, thank God.”

“B-but how? I—“

“I know what you did,” he squeezed me tighter, “so I made sure that you threw up enough to empty out the toxins. Then I forced you to drink water.”

The thought of Brandon finding my dying body made me shudder.

“Brandon, I’m sorry,” my voice wavered.

“It doesn’t matter so long as you’re okay.”


But I’m not okay.



“Hey, Blythe?”

“Yes?” the sound was hoarse. He was about to speak, but hesitated. 

“…I should probably clean this up, huh?”

“I guess so.”





Brandon insisted that he should clean the mess on his own, while I sat propped against the toilet.

“You don’t have to do this,” I told him as I watched him scrub the floor.

“Better me than you. Plus, I don’t want anyone else to know about this,” he stopped scrubbing for a minute to turn around and look at me. “This stays between you and me, alright?”

His expression was so serious that I had to avert my eyes.


“I especially don’t want your mother to know.”

I had a sour taste in my mouth at the thought of my mother. “Me neither.”


When Brandon had finished up with my bloody mess, he carried me to my bed, set a tall glass of water on my nightstand, and a waste bin beside my bed. I observed him quietly as he walked back and forth from different parts of the room, bringing me things. Then, he pulled a chair over to my bedside and leaned onto the comforter. He took one of my fragile, pale hands and enveloped it in both of his.

Five minutes had passed, and still no words were said.

“Brandon,” I braved some speech, “are you angry with me?”

He sighed heavily, and I could tell he was very distraught. “No, Blythe, I’m not. You should get some rest. When you wake up, we can get you some fresh clothes and wash your hair. Would that be okay?”

My body was so physically and emotionally exhausted that all I could was nod.

“Then sleep,” he stood, kissing my forehead, “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

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