Bang! The gunshot made my heart skip a beat. I sprinted like a fox desperate for
escape. My legs pumped in furious
rhythm, the muscled hind quarters of a cheetah. Sweat dripped into my eyes,
stinging them and blurring my vision, but I already knew that it was too
late. I had fallen behind.
My spirit sank as I
watched my nemesis Tiffanie Grimes cross the finish line, followed by Sara
Jenkins and Misty Goins. My foot finally
found the white mark, as I came in last place with a time of 27.42, setting a
personal worst.
Jealousy pulsed through
my veins as I watched the winners bask in their glory. I couldn’t believe how badly I’d blown it at
the state track meet. I’d worked so hard
all year to get here with my team. Now, I
felt humbled and embarrassed.
My crush, jumper Amy
Hendricks, watched me. She’d performed
exceptionally well today. She seemed abashed
on behalf of the entire team. Her
expression burned me, and I felt flushed.
After all, I had joined the team to impress her.
As I passed my coach,
she scowled and hissed, “Come on, Angie!
Why don’t you take up mall walking?
There’s plenty of old ladies you can out move!”
Matters worsened. I stumbled and fell. My hand landed on a sharp
rock. Pain shot through my palm and
blood trickled from the wound.
Coach Jones shook her
head. The face she pulled was somewhere between pity
and disgust. I hated to disappoint her. She’d believed in me all year, and I’d let
her down. I deserved her disdain.
I pulled myself up and
soldiered on to the locker room. As I
showered, my ego became my bully, and I gave myself an inner beating fit for a
pimply nerd with B.O. My faults looped repeatedly in my mind. I should have
trained more, tried harder, ate better.
On the bus ride home, I
continued to loathe myself. No one gave me
a hard time, but they didn’t sit with me either. Amy wouldn’t even look at me. I checked my cell phone. No messages.
Mom didn’t even care how the meet went.
I would always be a failure in her eyes.
The bus arrived at my
school just past sunset. The other students
had waiting rides, but Mom worked second shift, so I started to leg it home on my
sore and tired stems.
An afternoon rain had
cooled the spring air. My route took me
by the cemetery where Daddy slept for eternity, and I decided to visit him
before heading on to my empty home.
The tombstones stood in
line formation, row upon row like a legion of cold, hard soldiers, an army of
granite and marble. They ranged in size and shape from noble obelisks to small
stones, some crumbling, others new, all monuments to loss and grief, a reminder
that the war on death can never be won.
Upon the graves remembrances were placed, sacrifices to commemorate
ancestors and tributes paid to ghosts.
There were wreaths and vases of flowers, old dried husks and fresh
cuttings as well. Clusters of stones
were piled upon the Jewish plots.
Weathered flags fluttered upon the markers of heroes and water logged
teddy bears adorned the graves of babes.
A wrought iron fence, ornate with filigree like a dead language written
in cursive script, confined the grounds.
The surrounding trees seemed to mope with heavy shoulders, as if they
themselves mourned the dead. A delicate
fog swirled about the graveyard like a sorcerer’s breath on a cold
morning. The smell of moist earth
completed the eerie vibe, yet I found the cemetery comforting none-the-less. Peace could be found amongst this garden of
resting souls. Any judgments they
passed, they kept to themselves, and their silence was golden.
I made my way to his
grave and knelt down there in the wet grass.
“Hey, Daddy. I messed up again. I wish you were still here to help me
train! I know I would’ve won if you’d
been here to help me!” Tears welled.
Daddy had been my
personal trainer and, more importantly, my biggest fan. When he told me I could do something, I
believed it. When he was proud of me, I
felt proud of myself. He gave me the
confidence I needed to win. He told me
to always push myself and challenge my limits because the only way to reach the
stars was to spread my wings.
He had died so
suddenly. My grief hadn’t eased, not
even a little bit. Every competition I
entered, I ran for him, and every time I lost, I felt like I’d let him down.
Despair churned inside
me and I sat in silence, contemplating the pointlessness of my life. Part of me wanted to join Daddy in the cold comfort
of mud, but I knew he would be disappointed in me for thinking such things. He taught me perseverance. I felt as sullen and useless as the teeth
rotting away in daddy’s head. This
thought disturbed me greatly, so I lay down in the wet grass and wept.
The melodious voice of
an intoxicated man singing a folk ditty interrupted my solitude.
I sat upright. His red wool suit blared like a baboon’s
behind as he passed beneath one of the street lamps scattered along the main
path. Dressed like someone from history,
perhaps George Washington or Paul Revere, he wore a tricorne hat and powdered
wig.
He veered from the
trail and weaved amongst the stones, dragging his long fingernails across the tops
of them. He headed right for me. The isolated, gloomy atmosphere enhanced my
feelings of vulnerability, so I stood up.
I reached into my pocket and gripped the can of pepper spray on my key
chain. I considered running away.
As he neared, I saw
that he wore an ornate, antique mask of carved wood in the image of a lamb,
with the curls of its fur incised in great detail and painted a pearlescent white
that seemed to glow like a moonbeam. The
off-putting, garish ensemble frightened me, and I gasped loudly.
“Good evening, Miss,”
he said. He pulled down his mask,
revealing a pale face with chiseled features and dark eyes. “My name is Faolan,” he said, bowing.
An owl cried out a
warning, “Who? Who?”
Faolan proceeded,
“Forgive the mask. I’m coming from a
costume ball. I’ve a bit of drink, and I
forgot I was wearing it. I didn’t mean
to frighten you.”
I realized he was just a
cos-player or maybe a goth kid. I could
punch his short, scrawny, effeminate lights out if he tried anything. I felt silly for having been scared, so I
laughed. “That’s some costume,” I
said. “I’m Angie.”
“What brings such a
lovely young lass to the graveyard this dreary eve?” he asked. The odd, singsong manner in which he spoke revealed
he was still in character.
I felt like a kid
talking to a giant puppet in a television show.
“Just visiting Daddy,” I replied.
The empathy he emoted
seemed genuine. “I’m sorry. You’re far too young to bear such grief,” he
stated. “What do you do for fun, Angie?”
I told him, “I run.”
He said, “You do? From whom?”
I laughed. “I race!”
With a serious expression,
he philosophized, “Do you ever feel like life is a game you can’t win?”
I didn’t know how to
reply, so I just stared blankly at him. He
smelled familiar, like Daddy’s pipe tobacco and favorite whiskey, and I remembered
what it felt like to feel safe and cared for.
Faolan continued,
“There’s no trophy, no medal waiting for you at the finish line. There is only disease and death, sorrow and
heartache. Inevitably, prayers are
eventually answered with a resounding ‘no.’”
Indeed, I often felt
this way, but I never spoke it aloud. It
was the kind of thought one held inside for fear of sounding blasphemous. It unnerved me to hear it laid bare, and
hearing it made it all too true. My face
contorted to reflect my complex state of mind.
Faolan condoled,
“There, there Angie, cheer up. Even if
you can’t win at the game of life you
can win during the game of
life.”
He played on my
emotions. “Remember when you were
little? I bet your daddy had a nickname
for you.”
I smiled as I recalled
the memory. I could hear Daddy’s voice inside
my mind. I said, “He called me his Lil’
Champion.”
“You miss your daddy
don’t you? You want to make him proud,
don’t you? And what about that crush of
yours? Wouldn’t you like to make a great
impression? Wouldn’t you like to win, Angie? Just once?”
I whispered my
response, as if it were a confession. “Yes,
I would love to win. Not just once,
though. I want to win again and again.”
“What are you willing
to do to make that happen? What price
would you pay?” Faolan inquired.
I replayed all of my
failures in my mind, and I relived the feelings of defeat. “Anything.
I’d do anything to be a winner.” I
thought of my mother and realized I’d answered too quickly. “Well, just about anything. I wouldn’t hurt
my mom.”
“Hmm. I think I can accept those terms,” Faolan
muttered under his breath.
“What?” I asked, thinking I had misheard him.
He said, “Your
terms. You’ll do anything to be a
winner, with exception of hurting your mother.
Now, about my terms…”
“Terms? What are you going on about?” I inquired, my
face etched with bewilderment.
“Angie, I’m going to
offer you a once in a lifetime opportunity,” he stated coolly.
I should have been
skeptical, but I wanted this to be real. Who doesn’t want a golden ticket? I bit.
“Okay, what is it?”
He said, “I’m a talent
scout for The Eris Agency. I think
you’ve got what it takes to be a winner.
With a good coach, the right opportunities, and luck, you could make it
to the Olympics.”
“The Olympics? You really think so?” The tone of my voice divulged
my self-doubt.
“I believe in you,
Angie. I’ll make you a winner, and in
exchange, all I ask for is your leg.”
He still spoke in that
oddball style, invoking surreality. Surely
he joked, or possibly I didn’t understand him.
“What? My leg?”
“Do you know how most
runners make their money?” he quizzed.
“Yeah, sure. Corporate sponsorships.”
“That’s right! One company buys your chest and plasters
their name there. Another buys your
feet, adorning them in shoes with oversized logos. I get
to put my sigil on your leg.”
“Sigil? What’s that?” I asked.
He explained, “It’s
like a logo. I want to mark your leg.”
“Like a tattoo?”
“Similar. What do you think? Do you accept my offer?” He appeared confident, legitimate,
successful. He seemed to have everything
I wanted, and he was willing to share.
I turned it over in my
mind. It seemed too good to be true, and I should
have looked for the catch. However, I
knew I wouldn’t get to the Olympics on my own. Not training on the run down equipment at the
local recreation center. Not without
some help. I’d die a loser, a nobody. I’d never make Daddy proud. I didn’t have it in me to go to college and
become something important like a doctor or lawyer. The best I could hope for was an average
future as a bank or office manager or some other dull, soulless existence. This was my chance. Daddy said to never look a gift horse in the
mouth. I shrugged and agreed, “Ok. I’ll do it.”
“There’s just a matter
of the contract,” he said. He pulled a
piece of parchment from his jacket pocket and unfolded it.
Finding this outré, I inquired,
“Do you carry contracts everywhere?”
“Of course not. My meeting at the party was a no show.” He retrieved a reservoir pen. “What is your full name, Dear,” he asked.
“Angela Marie Taylor,” I
responded.
He leaned over and used
Daddy’s tombstone to write upon, filling in the blanks as I supplied the
answers. Then he handed the contract and
pen to me. “Just sign on the bottom line and date it,” he
told me.
I placed the document
on Daddy’s headstone and proceeded to sign it, but the pen wouldn’t make a
mark. “The pen doesn’t work,” I said.
Faolan said, “Ah,
that’s too bad. I don’t have another
one.”
“Can I come by your
office tomorrow and sign it?” I asked.
He looked nonchalant as
he squelched, “Oh no, Dear, I’m afraid not.
I’m prone to black outs and there’s no way I’ll remember you
tomorrow. Perchance it’s just not meant
to be.”
I could feel the
opportunity slipping from me, my future swirling away like a bulimic’s Birthday
cake. Daddy always said that if you want
something bad enough, you will find a way. In desperation, I jabbed the pen into the
scabbing wound on my hand. Pain rushed
up my arm, and I thought of Jesus and the crucifixion. I’d never been religious, and it seemed like
a strange thing to be thinking about.
I smiled, hiding my discomfort. “No worries,” I said, and I signed the
contract in my own blood. Then I handed
it back to him.
Faolan grinned an easy,
slippery smile. “Now that’s the kind of
resourcefulness that makes a winner.” He
folded and pocketed the parchment. He said,
“It’s nice doing business with you, Angela Marie Taylor. I’ll be in touch.” He winked at me, put his mask back on, and
turned from me. As he slowly sauntered towards
the back gate, he resumed singing that folk ditty.
A rain drop splattered
on my cheek. Cold and disoriented, I realized
I was still lying on the wet grass in front of Daddy’s grave. I had been so upset that I had forgotten to
eat after the race. I must’ve blacked
out from low blood sugar. I rubbed my
eyes to wipe the strange dream from my mind.
I got up, brushed off the muck, and headed home.
I didn’t give the dream
another thought, even as my luck took a miraculous turn for the better. First, I won a free membership to an upscale
gym with access to a personal trainer, a nutritionist, and state-of-the-art
equipment. Then, the track team’s coach
quit and her replacement took a special interest in my future, working with me
one-on-one. I thought nothing of Faolan,
even as I started to win, meet after meet.
Every day I got a little bit faster, and a tad bit luckier. By my senior year, I dominated high school
track competitions and won numerous trophies for the team. I earned a cool nickname. “Presto!”
I even got the
girl. I took Amy to prom, though
officially, we were only allowed to attend as friends. I didn’t mind the discrimination too
much. I was too happy to care.
That summer, I competed
in the USA Outdoor Track and Field Championships. I placed first in the 200
meter sprint, attaining the A standard and qualifying for the Olympics. I couldn’t believe it!
My time to shine finally arrived. I was competing in the Olympics! I crouched at the starting line, anxious to
run the race. My face stern with
concentration, my brow furrowed and determined as I eyed the finish line, I
breathed slowly and deeply, my body a temple of …
"Set" a
disembodied voice called out. I adjusted
my position and waited for the gun to sound.
The hollow bang echoed
throughout the stadium, and I dashed from my starting block. I got off to a good start, but the
competition pulled slightly ahead of me.
The race was still up for grabs as we got off the turn and into the home
straight.
I gave it my all and shot
to the front. My heart raced, my
adrenaline spiked as I realized my proximity to the finish line and that I was
in front. Queen of the world, I soared
towards victory on Nike’s wings. The
crowd cheered me on; though, absorbed in my own world, I heard only the
cadenced pounding of my feet.
I felt possessed by the
spirit of Victory, pushing my body on. I
gazed heavenwards as I neared the end, all the while I maintained my form. I
widened the lead, crossing the finish line, setting a personal best of 21.82
and winning by a huge margin.
The crowd roared! I felt exhausted; my heart palpitated so
quickly I thought it might explode. I
gobbled up air as I caught my breath. A
huge smile crossed my face. I threw my
arms in the air and did a victory dance.
My fellow runners hugged me and gave me high fives. I couldn’t believe it. I just won an Olympic gold medal!
I accepted a flag from my
coach and put it around myself like a superhero’s cape. I strutted back towards the track and spread
the flag out behind me, displaying it for the waiting cameras, enjoying the
best day of my life!
The game had just changed
for me. Fame, fortune, and an Olympic
Gold Medal, I had it all! High end
endorsements awaited me: cereal boxes, international shoe commercials, my own
clothing line. The world was my oyster!
When I returned to my
room and showered, I noticed a strange marking on my leg. It looked like scar tissue, but it had an
ornate pattern to it. It seemed
intentional, as if someone had cut the design into my flesh in a scarification
ritual. I knew I hadn’t recently injured myself, and I would’ve noticed such a
grotesque thing before now if I’d had it for long. As I scrutinized it, I felt vulnerable and
wrong, scared of forthcoming bad news. It
was probably some fast growing cancer.
They’d have to amputate my leg, and I’d never run again. I couldn’t imagine a fate worse than
that. How little did I know then!
That night, I awoke
from a fitful sleep to a loud noise. It didn’t
sound like any thunder that I had ever heard before. It seemed to emanate not from above me, but
from beneath my sheets. It sounded as if
something had torn a chasm into this dimension from another, and the void created
there, desperate to be filled, sucked in the surrounding atmosphere in a violent
gasp, like a baby taking its first breath. The noise stirred a primeval fear inside of
me. I wanted to run and hide under the sofa like a
skittish cat in a storm. The sound
seemed so eldritch and alien that I doubted the reality of it. Maybe I hallucinated it in some dream induced
stupor.
The air felt charged
with current. A terrible pain commenced in
my leg, far worse than any runner’s cramp I had ever suffered. It ached deep down to the bone, wreaked havoc
on my poor frazzled nerves. Any position
I lay in hurt, sending electrical jolts throughout my body.
I flipped on the lamp. I looked to my roommate for comfort, only to
find her gone from her bed. I slowly
peeled back the covers to inspect my leg.
I expected to find a twisted and gnarled tumor, and I readied myself for
the worst.
I was not prepared for
what I discovered. There, within the
glorious calf muscle of my prize winning leg, a hole had formed.
It looked as if someone
had bored out a vacuity with a massive drill bit, leaving nothing behind. Skin had tried to scab over it, leaving a
jagged rim of flesh around the mouth, but there was naught to grow over, just
void and vacancy. It looked so dark
within, like the blackness of space. I
stuck my finger inside it and felt nihility.
There was no self within this cavity, no flesh or bone; it had all been hollowed
out like a Halloween pumpkin. I removed
my finger in disbelief.
My trepidations
increased, for the hole became a womb, and something germinated inside the missing
part of me. The thing within grew larger
still and soon began to wiggle and kick like a babe in the belly.
I trembled with
fear. I didn’t want to know, but I had
to. I couldn’t stop myself. I put my finger back inside the hole. Sharp teeth sank into my flesh. I cried out in agony and retracted my bleeding
digit. As I put it in my mouth to suck
away the blood, I hyperventilated and cried.
Small, rugose hands
shot forth from the orifice and sought purchase on either side of the gap. The horrific creature pulled itself from the
tenebrous lacuna, ululating birth cries as it crossed into our world. The frightening and monstrous imp, part man
and part beast, grew to the size of a toddler as I scrutinized it in disbelief.
Paralyzed with fear and
shock, I couldn’t move or scream. My leg
was a portal to hell!
More creatures issued
forth, diverse in appearance. Some were
little men with horse bodies and heads befitting children. Others had the bodies of birds with the heads
of adult humans, and a few had children’s bodies with pig heads. Many wore little crowns and carried staffs or
pitchforks. Others were bejeweled in
sparkly gems. One even rode on the back
of a golden goose.
These demons plagued my
mind with every transgression I had ever committed, each sin I had sinned, any
wrong I had ever inflicted. They
tortured me with all of my fears of abandonment, inferiority, and worthlessness. They haunted me with despondent thoughts of
depression, insecurity, and feelings of inferiority. Worst of all, they stole my memories of
everyone I had ever loved, leaving blackness and void in their places.
The next demon cackled
as it violently clawed forth. It looked ever so familiar, and as it rapidly
grew to human size, I recognized the devil.
Faolan.
I hadn’t taken
performance enhancing drugs, but I hadn’t won by natural means either. Victory came at a price, and Faolan had
called in my debt.
“No! I cried out. This is not what I wanted. I never agreed to this!”
Faolan smiled and
cocked his head in that reassuring way Daddy used to when he wanted to encourage
me. “Oh, but you did!” he said, unfolding
the contract. I whimpered when I saw my
signature there written in my own blood.
“What am I supposed to
do?” I begged.
Faolan said, “For every
winner, there are untold losers. Their
sorrow and despair feeds the darker side of Nike, Victoria, and the other gods
of triumph, and they are ever so hungry.
So run, Angie, and disseminate the Olympic Spirit of Failure and
Despair! Feed their hunger! Run, Angie. Run
for your life, for if you ever stop, they’ll devour you instead!”
I believed him. A procession of monsters continued to swarm
from my leg. I shrieked as I raced forth out into the hall
of the Olympic Village. Doors opened and
heads peered out, as other champions sought the source of the screams.
“Angie, what’s wrong?” one
asked.
“It’s my leg!” I cried
out “Can’t you see the demons?”
He regarded me as
insane, shaking his head. “Demons? What?”
Even as he questioned
my sanity, a squamous imp crawled from the portal and scurried past him, into
his room, where it would turn a winner into a failure.
“I’m sorry,” I said
through tears, and I resumed running.
From this day forward,
I would always be running for my life, unable to stop even for a moment, never
to catch my breath again, forevermore sowing demons across the land like some
evil Johnny Apple Seed, with Faolan cheering me on. There is no finish line, for I am running a
race that can never be won. Never again
shall I know the thrill of victory, of glory for self or country, for I am the
agony of defeat.
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