Tennis, My Life, and a Butterfly

Not really a story, not really a poem....

                Silence. The court is still, as I wipe sweat from my burning brow. The sun is glaring down at me, and it seems that the glare is for me alone, the blistering heat for my personal torment, the blazing light meant to blind me and me alone. There's that, and then there is the pain. The burning of the muscles, the aching of the spine, the feeling that my body has been made of lead. It seems to me that I can feel every bruise that ever purpled my flesh, and that pain is all the sweeter. An addiction. A masochistic craving, brought on by my sadistic master. I want the pain desperately. Need it. Better to satisfy it this way, I think. Exercise. Isn't that what they say? Exercise cures all. But really, this is just a petty, trivial game, within a petty, trivial life. And does it matter how the pain is brought on? No.

                Of course, this is all selfishness. The craving, the pain, the competition. A temporary distraction. For while I am on that court, I think of nothing else. It is an alternate reality, one much simpler and much less cruel. I bite my lip and smile. The bite is a little too hard; blood trickles down. The taste -- sweet, tangy, metallic. I bite harder. More.

             A shape in the corner of my eye. The rustle of a pair of broken wings, beating against an unforgiving ground. I turn; a butterfly. It's frail body is wilted in the heat, and I know at once that I was wrong to believe I was the only one affected. The creature struggles pathetically, uselessly. Brown, gold and red against the green court. Beautiful. Tormenting. I turn away.

            I was very near winning, but all at once I am falling behind. Distracted. Unnerved. The butterfly. I have lost all confidence, within minutes I am as helpless on the court as the butterfly. The strength and will to fight seems to have left me. I am no longer running, rather ambling blindly across the court, feeble swatting at the ball as a lazy cat might swat at a fly. I lack the strength to make contact.

           There are three options. Regarding the butterfly, of course. For that is all that matters. Try to save it? Kill it swiftly? Leave it to die? I don't make a decision, so I tell myself. There is still time. That's a lie -- all there is is this moment. Really, I have made a decision. By not acting, I have chosen the third option. Coward. What am I afraid of?

Failure. If I try, and fail, it becomes my fault somehow. My responsibility. Damnit, I should try anyway. I don't.

           An odd number. Time to switch sides. I am across the court from the butterfly; this provides a false sense of relief. But, if I squint, I can just make out its miniature form, battered and tossed about by the wind. Still fluttering. That's ok then. Except it's not. What if my opponent fails to see it and tramples it, crushing into the hot surface of the court, leaving it to sizzle, embedded in the ground, legs still waving frantically? Oh, god, god, god, god... These images fill my head. Impossible to think of anything else.

           I can no longer see the butterfly. This gives me small hope, and my mind once again returns to the match. I have lost the first set, but win three straight games in a row. We forgot to switch sides, I realize. First, a hasty sip of water, an exchange of polite words, and then we're off again. I'm on the butterfly side.

         It's still moving, but I don't look closely. I know. I lose the next few games, returning to that defeated, weakened state. I should have done something. I should have helped. I at least should have put it in the shade, where it could die safe from the sun's cruel, scorching gaze. It may not be too late. Still, I do nothing.

        I lose the set. Slow steps carry me to the fluttering shape on the ground. The fluttering is only the wind. The legs are curled up, tucked into the lifeless body, the wings hanging limp. Oh, God, why didn't I do something?

WHAT THE F**K IS WRONG WITH ME?

         I looked down at myself with loathing. I didn't save the butterfly, I didn't save the match, I didn't save myself. The spell of the game has been broken, it is no longer a peaceful sanctuary. It will never be again. I am losing my distractions -- one day I will have to face cold, hard reality. There IS no escape. Not for the butterfly, not for me.

Author's Note

um....no comment.

Reviews

[Ryan]

Wow, it seems simple, but it's a very deep. A great underlying theme. Overall, awesome job!