Page 8 of Break Your Fall

Crybaby.

So SENSITIVE.

Ruined.My space is ruined. My song is ruined. I’m. . .

Nothing is right.

Last night, everyone in my life let me down, and I had to be the one to look after myself, but I couldn’t do it. I didn’t do it. I’ve become a train wreck. Just like my mother. A gallery of derailed thoughts, each with their own canvas on the wall.

YOU FEEL SO GOOD.

I see last night,hisface as he pushes inside of me, hear his moans mixing with the crashing waves beyond the caves, the thunder rolling through the storm, the small moans from my own mouth as I tried to lose myself in him, as I tried to forget.

The glass shoots from my hand and hits the canvas, red wine splashing the surface. The easel falls as I bump the side in my haste to get away, the sullied canvas hitting the floor. I pace, my hands over my ears, my body aiming for the outside door, my natural instinct to leave, to find someone.

YOU DON’T BELONG HERE.

I stop and whip back around. I have nowhere to go, no one to go to.

I WANTED IT TO BE YOU.

Shut up!

My heart pounds, pushing me back across the room. I’m leaping up my walls, ripping down my drawings, my paintings. I don’t stop until I’ve hit every wall, torn down every piece of my useless art, until I’ve hit every desk and every shelf, shoved away every picture, every knickknack, hidden every memory, every useless thing that reminds me.

I make it back to my bed and fall back against the foot, to the floor. My chest and throat are tight, my inhales ragged and stiff. The song plays on as I curl into myself, releasing clenched, soundless cries into my knees.

3

Different

Thomas

I groan into my hands before rubbing them down my face, looking over at my stereo to avoid looking at the empty box at my feet. New Radicals switches to Collective Soul and I shift on the edge of my bed. The old box spring squeaks, my old friends, the mice, officially awake.

I should be out, maintaining my skills with a basketball, preparing for the college court, for a future I still don’t think I want anymore, that I could lose because of that, that I probablywilllose because of that, and I’m avoiding the idea of my dead-end life by packing for it instead.

I’m a pessimistic optimist in denial.

Makes total sense.

I don’t know what happened. Basketball has been my world since I was a kid. It’s how I’ve defined myself.

How I’ve made my father proud.

I worked so hard for a shot at college ball, for a shot atcollege, and I got it—a full ride to be whoever I want to be. The kicker is, I don’t know who I am outside of basketball. I’ve never taken the time to imagine another life for me. And my ticket, my chance to have that other life is hanging on a scholarship for a sport that’s been slipping from my head and my heart since spring.

It’s a bunch of bullshit. I’ve dreamed of playing full-time ball, and that’s it. I’ve worn through a lot of balls lugging them with me almost everywhere. I’ve turned down dates in the past for a date with the ball. I’d relish the feel of the leather between my hands, the spring-back as the ball bounced against my palm. I’d relish game nights, the roar from the crowd.

I can still feel the confetti raining down, hear theswishof that last winning shot.

I got to be somebody. Iwassomebody.

Now, I’m becoming a nobody who would rathereatrelish, straight from the jar, than hold a basketball again.

I laugh to myself, then kick the empty box away from me before falling back onto my bed.

Either I need to reignite my love for basketball, or start looking for a much different job. And soon.

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