For someone who has nothing better to do than being stuck in a wheelchair all day, staring out the window, I wake up way too early. My inner clock doesn’t seem to have received the memo that my life is on pause.

The clock on the whitewashed walls tells me it’s 5 a.m. A day full of emptiness awaits me. Another day I wish for death—if only it would welcome me. But no. The pills I swallowed three weeks ago let me down. My body let me down.

I count to five, then shove back the duvet cover and lift my legs, one after the other, over the edge. My wheelchair is within reach, and I pull it even closer. I press a button to lift the armrest nearest to me. Using the strength of my arms, I heave myself onto the chair, sliding onto the padded seat.

As I do each morning, I wheel myself around the bed, palms smoothing the mocha Italian linen. During the first days inside the walls of the Crystal Lake Residential Rehab Facility, the staff offered to make my bed. I refused. There are only a few things in my life over which I still have control. One of them is the ability to make my own damn bed, even inside a luxury clinic.

The Cabo San Lucas beachfront property has treated some of the world’s wealthiest people. With floor-to-ceiling windows, thick carpets, heavy drapes, chandeliers, and warm, muted earthy colors, it resembles a luxury hotel more than anything. I happen to be one of the lucky few who is able to afford the hefty price tag. But I only agreed to come here so my brothers would leave me the fuck alone.

My easel stands on one side of one of the windows. I don’t pay it any attention. Doc keeps it there with a box of painting supplies next to it. He thinks it will arouse a desire inside me to paint again. I haven’t painted for months. Sometimes I rummage through the box of supplies, pull out the acrylic paints, paintbrushes, pencils, and drawing paper. I always drop them back inside again.

Losing the fight of self-control, I glare at the easel. Watching it makes me feel like someone punched me in the gut. It reminds me of the life I lost. Sure, I can still paint. Since the accident, I’d painted what people around the world call masterpieces, paintings that hang in art galleries across the globe, but none of them are my best work. Beautiful images come from a place of beauty within my soul. But the lights within me were switched off twelve years ago. How can I see beauty in the darkness?

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to switch the lights back on. All I see is a blanket of night as external sounds distract me—sounds of seagulls squawking as they fly above the ocean, a distant boat riding the waves, the murmur of voices out in the hallways. I open my eyes again, returning to reality.

The door opens and Cabana Boy, my personal butler and caregiver, walks in. Each resident has a butler. And since most of the residents here are English native speakers, the butlers are fluent in the language.

His legal name is Alejandro Rivas, but his white shorts and matching tight T-shirt, the leather sandals, sleeked back hair and trimmed beard remind me of a cabana boy at a Mexican resort.

“Good morning, Mr. LaClaire.” This morning, Cabana Boy is holding a silver breakfast tray, balanced on one well-defined arm.

“Good morning, Alejandro. I hope you had a great night.”

“I did. Thank you.” His gaze slides from mine and rests on the food. “I know you requested to be served breakfast in your room, but I saw Dr. Drew in the dining room. He asked you to join him for breakfast at the pool.”

“Tell Dr. Drew that Mr. LaClaire asks to be left alone.”

I spend most days in my room, leaving only when I have to meet Doc or other health-care professionals for medical checkups or therapy or to visit the gym for exercise. Group therapy is the worst. Being around other people makes me uncomfortable.

Breakfast at the pool would be torture. Most residents in this place are female. Lots of tanned legs and fake boobs jutting out all around the pool area would remind me of a part of my body that no longer functions the way it used to, something I prefer to ignore. I’m depressed enough as it is.

“Very well, Sir.” He places the tray on a table attached to the wall. He comes to pat my shoulder, white teeth flashing. “If you need anything else, let me know.”

Instead of smiling back, a sudden urge to punch the guy in the face spurts through me. He smiles all the damn time. Someone should remind him that life is a pile of shit.

He returns to the table, arranging plates and folding napkins. I watch as he fills a glass with water, counts my meds and brings them to me. The nurses make sure never to leave me with medication inside the room. After what I pulled before coming here, I don’t blame them.

I swallow down the medication and hand him back the glass.

“Thanks,” I say, feeling bad for the urge I’d had to punch him. He’s not responsible for my lousy moods. If he’s paid to smile, let him smile. “I’d like to be alone now, if that’s okay.”

“Of course, Sir.” He clasps his hands behind his back, the smile still on his face. “Call if you need me.” He steps to the door, then turns. “Your brother, Mr. Bryant LaClaire, called last night. He asked again when he can come and see you. He said he has something important to tell you.”

“I’m not ready for visitors.” It’s my automatic reply to that daily question. My brothers call the staff because I refuse to pick up their calls when they ring my cell. I need a break from them, especially from my twin brother, Bryant, who still reminds me of how I ended up in this damn chair in the first place. A couple of months ago, I told him I’d forgiven him for throwing me over the balcony during a heated fight. But there’s a difference between forgiving and forgetting.

“I understand. Would you like me to bring you anything else? Some new books and DVDs just arrived. Or I could book you a massage.”

“A bottle of whiskey would be appreciated.” I don’t crack a smile as I watch Cabana Boy’s smile melt off his face. “No one needs to know.”

“Sir, you know I...” His words die on his lips.

“Don’t look so horrified,” I say. “I’m messing with you. The best thing you can do for me today is leave me alone for a couple of hours. No checking in every half an hour. If I need you, I’ll call. Do not let my brothers visit. Is that clear?”

“Perfectly.” He gives a nod and leaves me alone with my demons.

I don’t touch the British breakfast. Instead, I brush my teeth, take a quick shower, then position myself at the window, watching the sea gulls exercising their freedom, the waves rolling in from and retreating to the ocean.

Before the accident, dancing with water—same as painting—used to be my passion. I enjoyed swimming, surfing, sailing, and anything that allowed me to come into contact with the liquid.

Ignoring the pain of loss inside my gut, I lean my head back and pretend to be in another place and time, inside a different body.

I don’t know how long I sit and dream, but a knock on the door startles me.

I grit my teeth. Why the fuck won’t anyone leave me alone?