'Responsive', a very short story

The nurse had placed me at almost the exact spot I’d asked him to be the day I arrived here - the day he leaned into that once intimate pocket between neck and shoulder, and asked where I’d like to sit during the remainder of the afternoon... from where I was, and without the ability of turning my neck - the only reasonable answer could have been the balcony... “the balcony...please...” - with his hands firmly gripping the very new black plastic of the handles outfitting my very new wheelchair - he strolled me gently onto the veranda... he’d committed to doing this daily - and each day I committed to perfectly recreating the exact tone I delivered that day of my arrival - hoping to preserve his courteous demeanor - yet the wider my goulish smile got, the further he kept me from the balcony. I did not protest; I settled on experiencing the view from the edge of the french doors leading one onto the veranda. As he guides me toward my spot by the window, I quietly pray he keeps up his pace - a day by the wayside, buoyed by the unblemished view of the street below- at the last moment, he stops suddenly - catching himself and placing me just outside the balcony - delicately shifting me slightly; making the final adjustment, he miscalculates my point of view - and keeps me almost parallel to the wall... with a less than average view of Bourbon St below. I am entirely dependent on the staff here - I do not want to be a bother, so I smile, or at least manage something close to it, and the gentleman nurse moves on to tend to another patient. The light in the room shifts from a bright yellow, to a cold blue as the sun is overcast - the environment unveiled and exposed in true horror fashion - somewhat thickening the melancholy that suddenly comes over me. I believe the patients who voice every one, or at least a majority of their concerns - receives a less regarded form of treatment - nothing harsh, or malicious - just subtle shifts in tone - cold stares, and blank faces - no thoughtfulness, or consideration - two words my mother exclaimed harshly for the sake of high drama, and to herself as household chores remained undone, never registering with me until just recently... could this be a result of the dramatic trimming of brain capacity due to the accident? It’s not exactly the words themselves - it’s about having one’s presence reduced - in a freshly wounded state... I look forward to kindness nowadays... soft features enveloping into a smile, as I try to do the same and realize the muscles in my face tend to be shifty these days - when one’s permanent vantage point is always a few feet below any reasonably placed mirror, one forgets how they look like - or rather, I’ve forgotten how I should look like... the image of myself as a younger man is still very much vibrant and clear to me... now, likely a fleshy mold - a poor artist’s horrid clay rendering of a younger me... grimacing, looking ill... how I imagine I must appear to the staff here.