The chains and the wheelchair 

Alice was seated in her wheelchair, as always. As always...

It was dark. The shallow light illuminating that place (a place she didn't know at all) was only enough to contrast her silhouette. It looked like the light of a searchlight, maybe even narrower. 

As always... she wanted to get up. She wished for this so badly that she barely could hold her will to scream out of anger and frustration.

Anger... frustration... These were the two emotions that never left her heart during these four years. It started when she was thirteen, more or less. When, all of a sudden, every time she looked at her legs, they would be inert, dead. The legs she used to dance, to run, to jump, to walk, to stand. These legs were dead. And she felt like dying together with them.

There was no divine punishment that could be worse than that. The punishment of always wanting to stand up, but being unable to do so no matter how much you wished for that.