Inner Battles

Inner Battles

Trying to pull it together as she walked down the school hallway was the hardest part. The way she heard her sneakers and only her sneakers echo on the floor, the way she counted her steps as she drew closer to a door she did not want to enter. It was two-o-something. There were no more kids scattering in the hallways, or teachers walking in clacking heels. It was her, and only her, and that open door at the end of the hall. It made her shiver; it made her heart pound.

The lights were fluorescent and yellow-tinted, and they stained the floors with a bright, sickening shine. Her reflection passed rapidly through classroom door windows as she walked, but she could not bring herself to look at it. She could not bring herself to look into any dark, rectangular window, where she would see herself, ready to do something she swore she would never do. Her seventeen-year-old self, betraying her inner ten-year-old. Her, putting an end to what she had loved for thirteen years of her life. All the months, the days and nights, the seasons that passed . . . she thought she would be ready for it all to end. Boy, does time fly.

When she was halfway to her destination, she paused for a moment, thinking to go back. She turned around briefly to where she started from, and then back around to where she was headed. And then she did this once more, a look of immense fear suddenly planted on her promising young face. She sighed, what am I gonna do now, what am I gonna do? Her legs felt weighted as she pushed herself forward, almost instinctively.

 Every action she was taking was betraying who she knew herself as, and she was not making sense to herself. It was as though her mind was now a carcass from all things familiar to her, but her body knew it was too soon to be dead already. She thought of all the others who were not by her side at that moment. With every step she took, a new person came to mind.

Her mother and father, whom invested both time and money to ensure her success. Her two little sisters, whom looked up to her and wanted to follow in her footsteps. Her dozens of teammates, who would certainly despise her for what she was about to do. Her classmates, who knew her as nothing else, and that infuriated her. Her breathing became heavy, and her eyes flickered with fire.

Time and her footsteps seemed to get slower as she continued to the door. She felt as if she were getting nowhere, but it seemed as though there was nowhere else to go. My classmates know me as nothing else. What do I do if I am nothing else? The taunting faces of those she knew flashed through her mind, as if to tell her to stop. What was she doing, destroying a definite future for herself? What was she doing, throwing more than half of her own soul away?

She heard familiar voices, all praising her work, all telling her she was amazing. This had always been her only way of getting those compliments.

You are so amazing! Great job!

You are one of the best players on the team.

Don’t ever quit, you could be in the Olympics some day.

You are so valuable, keep it up.

Saying goodbye meant saying goodbye to all of the compliments that made her feel worth something. It meant saying goodbye to a part of her, a part of her personality, her character . . . everything she had ever valued, ever worked her hardest for before any school work, before any family gathering or birthday or holiday. Saying goodbye meant she would be leaving a chunk of her memories in the dust; it meant she would have to start over. This was going to hurt her . . . a lot. She was about to rip her own heart out, and throw it on the floor, voluntarily . . . all by herself. Still, she knew for some reason she could not turn around. At least, not now, because she was at the door already. She was scared. There was no one to stop her, and she found herself wishing there was.

She heard her own voice as she entered. It came in repetitive, aggressive waves, overpowering the courage she had worked up all day.

Do you really want to do this?

You don’t really want to do this.

You can’t do this. This is your life, and you’re just going to flush it all away?

You know you shouldn’t do this.

            Her footsteps slowed as she walked into the room, like she was trudging through mud and guck and water. She stood there, watching as other girls she knew happily chatted with their mentor, unaware of her presence. They were so excited, talking about the Olympics and their own seasons and how awesome they thought they would do.

            Their words killed her. She had been a part of it all, too, and had felt every bit of happiness they ever did. Thirteen years of feeling the same, ecstatic feelings for every win, and every time she scored, it had felt like a child’s first ‘best day ever.’ Her throat closed up. Her tears were forming, and memories kept swirling around in her brain; the first time she tried the sport, all the teams she had been a part of, all the friends she had made, parties she had gone to, tournaments and wins and losses and tears and smiles . . . her ten-year-old self, she knew, would hate her for this. She could see her, crying and screaming at her, calling her stupid, saying she could not do it.

It always had been drilled into her head that a sport was her easy way to make it. She was never extraordinary in school, and she never wanted to try. A sport never asked more of her than what she could give. She knew this, but she was also taught by someone with an outstanding soul that easy would not always work. An outstanding soul told her that effort would take her further than what she would ever believe. For some reason, that one person’s words got to her more than any of the coaches or teammates she had ever had. Perhaps she did not want easy anymore. Maybe easy was harder, because it was harder to be proud of the things that were easy. She wanted to be proud of the things she did.

 It was only then that she realized that no one was going to stop her but herself.

Easy is not going to work.

She moved toward the desk with that thought eating away at the memories she held close. She suddenly felt dangerously motivated. That outstanding soul was now helping her, moving her forward, spilling words out of her mouth that came easier than expected. She did not cry, she did not stutter. She did not cave when asked, Are you really sure? The outstanding person was touching her heart, changing her values and opinions and plans. Her heart was still pounding, but for a different reason. She did not want easy, no. She wanted a challenge.

She was braver now than she had been during any game, moving faster than any sprint. She felt more adrenaline inside of her than all of the times she had scored, and she felt more excited than she had from any trophy she had been given. Her face was brave, and now it was her soul that was outstanding. She left the room, the echo of her past taunting once more, what am I gonna do now, what am I gonna do?

And she whispered back to it, anything.