Alan

A man has to give up his biggest passion, dream, and motivation.

     It’s the middle of July, and the weather is the kind of searing heat that brings sweat pooling at the crevice of your neck and causes skin to feel caustic. In Nevada, the dry hotness turns the place into a living hell, the sun smacking those who dare venture outside and painting patterns of red on their flesh. Today, though, is a special day, which draws thousands of sports-fanatics out onto an enormous track; it’s the day of the annual Carson City marathon. Ten of the country’s top runners would be brought out to compete, the fans devouring their presence and exuberance for the race. 

     A bright, long-legged man is waiting diligently at the starting line; his hair is flaxen, dipping into a side part and curling gently beneath his ears. His skin, which has been bronzed from the many hours he spends outside, is now glowing faintly; sea-green eyes burn with a determination that extends beyond his passion for the game. “Daddy, are you goin’ to win the race?” A small boy with eyes equally as green looks up at his father, lips curling into a curious ‘o.’ 

     The man leans down, ruffling the child’s hair. “I’ll try my best, Vince.” 

     “Go, daddy!” says his daughter, Louisa, bouncing up and down excitedly. He smiles adoringly at his children, gently shooing them towards their mother when the voice of the announcer booms through the speakers. 

     “Hello, everyone. I’m sure all of you are excited for the twenty-third annual marathon!” his voice is swallowed by frantic cheering and screams from the crowd. He smiles, raising the mic up to his lips again once the shouting has died down. “Competing in today’s race, we have…” the announcer begins listing names, and onlookers watch as their faces appear on the jumbotron. The golden-haired man is the last to be called: ‘Alan Young’. His wife waves to him from the crowd, immediately recognizable to him. Her dark eyes are sparkling with the wish of luck, and her children are pressed to her side, looking at him with wonder-- he’s determined to win. 

     “On your marks…” The racers crouch down, muscles pulsing and preparing for the run ahead. 

     “Get set…” Alan feels the kiss of the sun on his back, nervousness dripping down his face. 

     “Go!” 

     The sound of the gunshot sends feet flying across the ground, and the runners are dashing towards victory. Exhilaration fills Alan’s body, and in-and-out he pants the palpable tune of chance. He can barely feel the heat pressing on his body; the wind of his speed buffets against him, somehow turning his legs into fast-moving machines as though he’s made of mechanical parts. One by one Adrian surpasses his rivals, the roar of the crowd vibrant and echoing in his ears-- I will win, he thinks with all his might, adrenaline coursing through his veins. 

--

     “Congratulations, Mr. Alan Young!” bellows the scruffy announcer, holding out a golden medal to Alan, who receives it with a prideful look playing his angular features. I did it.  

     “That was amazin’, daddy!”

     “Yeah! You were so cool!”

     His children dance around him, mimicking the severe, focused expression on his face. “You did great, Al,” says Juliette Young, smiling. The two had met while Alan was studying abroad, both on the métro in Paris-- she had been astounded by his fluency in the French language, and he thought she was the most compassionate, intelligent woman he had ever met. They hit it off immediately and later got married beneath the Eiffel Tower before moving to America with their children. 

     Alan laughs modestly, brushing a strand of hair out of his face. “Let’s get going then, shall we?”

--

     A loud, violent coughing fit interrupts Alan’s sleep. Without disturbing his wife, he quietly slips out of the bed and into the guest room, where his mother is staying. Her frail appearance, combined with her crumpled up position, causes his heart to hurt. 

     She has been suffering from a rare type of cancer for several years now. Her husband left her, claiming that he ‘would never continue to live with a cripple’--that’s why she was living in Alan’s house for the time being. Despite him having a steady amount of money in his bank due to his victories, he never had enough to pay for the treatment that would supposedly save her life. “It’ll get better, mom,” he says softly, kissing her cheek and going back to bed. 

--

     He wakes up again at five in the morning to get to work, pulling on a trim suit and adjusting his tie. Juliette wraps his arms around him from behind, letting her hair fall carelessly. He inhales her intoxicating scent-- dark cherry and roses--and gives her a chaste kiss on the lips. “I’ll make breakfast,” she says, pulling away and heading to the kitchen. 

     After eating his eggs and toast, Alan picks up his briefcase and waves goodbye to his wife. “Drive safely,” she smiles, knowing he will. Alan’s always been a very careful man. He nods and enters the garage, keys jingling as he unlocks the door to his sleek Mercedes-Benz. 

     As he’s driving to work, watching carelessly as the drab scenery flit past, he receives a phone call; the number is unknown. “Hello?” he asks, raising the device to his ear. 

     “Hello, is this Alan Young?” asks the voice on the other end of the line, sharp and drawn out. 

     “Yes, and who is this?”

     “Good morning, sir. My name is Howard Douglas, and I am one of the managers for RunWeekly magazine. I was wondering if you were interested in being interviewed for one of our articles this month? We’ll pay you, of course.”

     For a moment, Alan forgets everything else and focuses on the man’s words. RunWeekly magazine? That’s one of the top sports catalogs, and if I get to be featured in their issue, my popularity will rise and then I can spend my earnings on mom’s cancer treatment… “Yes, I would be honored.”

     “That’s great to hear!” the manager exclaims, chuckling. “We’ll see you next Tuesday then, if that’s a good time. And I’ll give you the address for our headquarters, so you should probably write it down.”

     “Alright, hang on a second,” Alan pauses, placing his phone on the edge of his shoulder to rummage for a piece of paper with his free hand. In his distraction, he hardly notices as his car speeds past the red light. Prompting Douglas to continue, he takes out a pen and holds it at the ready--

     Crash. 

    The front of the vehicle has been turned inside out, some metal bits and dust floating about the wreck. The driver inside has been knocked unconscious--everything is still and silent, save for the sirens of the ambulance and the man on the phone who is frantically asking, “Mr. Young? Sir?!”

--

     Pain. That’s all Alan feels before he resurfaces, dressed in crisp, white hospital sheets. At first, he’s not sure what’s going on; his lucidity has been blurred, and he can hardly remember anything that had happened. Voices rapidly speak in hushed whispers about him, saying things such as, ‘he’s awake,’ or ‘how do we tell him?’ 

     He doesn’t awaken from his daze until he hears the gentle voice of his wife. “Alan, are you alright?” She rubs his shoulders soothingly, locking her sharp gaze with his indistinct, dream-like one.  

     He shifts around, suddenly feeling a shot of pain in his legs. Gritting his teeth, he asks Juliette, “where the hell am I?”

     “You got into a wreck, Al, and…” she trails off, unsure of how to say the next part without devastating him. “Your legs are permanently damaged.”

     Alan breathes in heavily, attempting to ground himself. He looks down at his legs, seeing them bound in thick, heavy bandages. “Isn’t there a way to fix this?”

     “You’ll be attending treatment for a year, to see what they can do.”

     “Thank God.”

     “But…” 

     “What is it?”

     Juliette pinches the bridge of her nose, exhaling heavily. “The doctor said you won’t be able to run again.” 

     There’s an unmovable block of silence in the room, shrouding the steady murmur of the hospital workers outside. The two stare at each other for what seems like ages, unsure of what to say. Finally, Alan croaks in a desperate whisper, “what am I supposed to do now?” 

     “Désolé,” she breathes in French, touching his face with sympathy. 

     The doctor chooses that moment to enter the room. “Oh, I see you’re awake,” he breaks through the silence with an awkward cough. “I assume your wife has told you about your condition.”

     “Yes,” Alan answers feebly. 

     “I’ve prescribed you with an antibiotic for joint pain, and you should take the recommended dosage whenever you feel especially weakened,” he pauses, fidgeting with his robes. “I’m so sorry for you, Mr. Young. I know it must be a tragic occurrence for you. I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that the person you crashed into did not suffer any fatal injuries.”

     “That’s great.”

     “Well, I’ll leave you to it. Mrs. Young has already filled out your medical sheets, so you can just leave whenever you’d like,” he smiles forcedly, letting the door shut gently behind him. 

      “Let’s get you going then,” Juliette says, taking his wheelchair and navigating it through the hospital corridors. My passion, the only thing that really made me want to live, was now taken from my grasp. Gone, forever. The faces of the doctors fill with pity when they see Alan; all of them knew how much he loved his sport. He wishes it could all have been just a dream, and he would wake up and it would all be better. However, life is not a fairytale.

-- 10 months later --

Alan

     I’ve been skipping the free treatment sessions I was promised. My wife thought that I was attending them weekly, but in truth the whole matter would have made me feel a lot more depressed. Having to face the fact that I’m crippled every day is already enough. Life without going for a run each day feels like living without breathing, living without eating. Juliette and my children sober me up a bit of course, but other than that it’s as though my world of color has turned a dull shade of grey. I miss feeling thrilled, happy, and excited; now, I feel close to nothing.

     I turn on the television, and immediately it shows a local marathon event going on. I can barely watch it for five minutes before envy seeps through my heart, green as ever. I shut it off. “Children! Alan! Dinner is ready!” Juliette calls through the intercom. I wheel myself over to the kitchen, quickly finishing my plate of food before heading into my mother’s room. 

     She’s been getting better, I can tell; I spent the majority of my treatment money on mom’s chemo, and she seems quite well these days. I saw her smile for the first time in years yesterday, when she saw Vince and Louisa parading around the living room yesterday in nothing but my clothes. “How is my favorite son?” she asks me, grinning cheekily. Wrinkles are evident around her lips, and she’s obviously very tired, but she’s better.

     “I’m your only son, mom,” I reply, rolling my eyes.

     “Well, if I had more children, I probably would have loved you the most.”

      “Thanks.”

      “So, how is the healing process going?”

     I still haven’t told her about that. “It’s alright. And I see you’ve gotten better, eh?” 

     “Of course. I finally have an appetite!”

     I smile, tapping her shoulder gently. “That’s great to hear, mom.”

     “Can you still go back to work?”

     “Yep. Davis has personalized my office for a--“ I can hardly get the words out. “"a disabled person.”

     Mom’s eyes pierce through me only the way a mothers’ can. “Oh, honey, you’ll get better…”

--

     Day by day, my condition worsens. I turned sixty-one years old as of yesterday. I’ve become snappy, occasionally even barking at my children and wife. I know it’s not right, but I can’t help it. The pain in my legs as spread to my entire body, which aches every time I try to move. Now someone else has to force-feed me food; otherwise, I either won’t eat due to my lack of appetite or because of my joint pain. Unfortunately, even the medication doesn’t seem to ease it away.

     One day, I’m feeling so resentful that I refuse to get out of bed. Juliette had to come to me to tell me to eat, or to ‘do something that would make me feel better.’ She still looks as youthful a beauty as ever. I touch her face, feeling sadness fill my body. “I’m so sorry, Juliette. What have I become?”

     She stares at me softly, fondly. “You’re still the same man I fell in love with that day on the métro, Al, and I will never stop loving you.”

     “Oh, Julie…” 

     She kisses my cheek. “Goodnight, Al.”

     As she curls up beside me in the bed, I can’t help but feel as though there’s nobody there. I reminisce over the times I was happier, and I wish I could be that person again, that beacon of grandeur and talent. I have quiet literally been reduced to nothing. “Goodnight,” I whisper softly to the love of my life, hearing my shallow breathing overtake me. 

--

Juliette

     He never woke up. Alan Young, gone from this world forever. I cried when I woke up without him, feeling myself slinking back from reality and into a land of remorse. I could have been there for him, I think shamefully. I knew he hadn’t been getting treatment, but I didn’t want to override his own decision, the one he thought was right for him. I told our children of the news, and they weeped with me. His time came too soon.

     The bleak, Parisian air surrounds me, rain hitting the shiny pavement with such force that it felt as though it would cut through the concrete. I had moved back to my hometown after hearing of Al’s death, refusing to stay in the home that would haunt me for years to come. I needed to get away. 

     My thick, blonde hair is soaked through with rain despite the umbrella shielding me from it. I hear a wolf-whistle from behind me, turning to see a young man in his twenties. Jesus Christ, I’m fourty-two, I think to myself with contempt. What is the problem with boys these days?

     I spent the whole day in recollection of the things Alan and I had shared. I visited the train station where we met for the first time; I remembered him reading quietly to himself in rapid French, which had intrigued me; not to sound shallow, but never before had I met an American with such precise fluency. He proceeded to curiously interrogate me about myself, to which I happily responded. We ended up going on several dates; cafés, bookstores, gardens, old castles; we were a timeless couple. And then, one day, he proposed to me while we were walking beneath that mass of iron that tourists seem to find so beautiful. 

     As I’m walking along the Seine, something catches my eye. It’s a bright pop of pink, distinguishing itself from the silvers and golds around it: a love lock. Nostalgia overtakes me, and as I get closer, I see our names written on it. Here, we had shared our first kiss. We knew it was meant to be directly after that, as silly as it sounds.

     Finally, I take a walk through the Champs-Élysées. The street is lit up by pure, white lights, illuminating the darkness. My mind flashes to Alan and I walking down it hand in hand" his hand felt so warm in mine. I remember the classical music playing as we strolled lovingly through the city, stealing kisses and whispering little secrets into each others’ ears. 

    He’s gone now. If only I could hold him again; if only I could tell him it would get better. It doesn’t matter, though. Just because someone has left the earth, doesn’t mean they leave for good. People like that, good people who have made such a mark on you that it still burns just as bright, never leave. They’ll always be right beside you, silently wishing you the best. They’re watching you from above, protecting you from demons and evil. Most of all, they’re imprinted on your heart; they will never never truly disappear. And I just know one thing; Alan is a great man. He loved everyone he met dearly, and he always wanted the best for them. That’s why I loved him, and why I forever will.