spindle trigger

You thought you found the perfect partner.  You've relied on crutches and a wheelchair to get around, depending on your energy level, for most of your life, and it always seemed like a hurdle that would scare away any romantic interest.  But you improved yourself, took classes, got as fit as you were able, and someone took notice.
Determined, sweet, cute, funny, adventurous, they hit all the right notes.  You got married, maybe younger than you should've, you bought a house and moved in, and then it all went wrong.  Living out in the country, happy to use your handi-capable vehicle to get into town, you found out they'd sold your vehicle.  It trapped you in the house.
They started deciding what clothes you wore, what you ate, when you had sex.  They took away phone and internet access.  They cuffed your hands behind your back, started feeding you, bathing you.  They tailored your clothing so they could dress you without ever taking the cuffs off.  Your screams and pleas were met with blank stares and condescension.  You were a doll, a prop in their lives.
When the muscle cramps started, suggesting your muscles were atrophying after weeks of being unable to use your arms, you made a break for it, crawling out of the house like a worm the moment they fell asleep.  The walk into town might have normally taken fifteen minutes to half an hour.
For you, with limited use of your legs and your arms still bound behind you, it must have taken four or five hours.  The edge of the town is in sight, the first buildings in earshot, when the car pulls up next to you.  It's them.
You roll off the side of the road and into a ditch, into frigid mud and gravel, where you can barely keep your face above the puddle-level water, in your vain struggles to get away.  You trigger.