(You're my) Numbing Cream - the menendez brothers

IM FINE

Eriks perspective:

"Uaugh..". I grunt after each swing of the racquet, coach seemingly enjoying how fast he is throwing these balls at me.
My knees are aching at this point from him throwing the balls too low, and my shoulders are killing me fro m how far im hitting these balls out of annoyance.

After he has run out of balls, I drop my racquet and leave the court for a break. The white tennis outfit I have on clings to me from the sweat, the overbearing sun not seeming to have a break on me today.

I reach the side chairs where my water bottle, amongst many towels and balls is sat. i pick up a small rag as well as my bottle, and take a massive mouthful of water. I sit down and start to dab my face with the rag, collecting all the sweat that my clothes hadn't already collected.

"Why are we stopping so early?" I hear coach, Steven, yell from across the court. I look up over at him, having to shield my eyes with my hand from the bright sun to see where he was.
He was picking up all of the balls I had hit his way during practise. They were scattered all over the court. He would normally get me to do that job, I guess he's noticed how tired I've been.

"I'm just hot, Steve" I yell back his way, hoping he wouldn't make me come back out on court to help.
He doesn't reply, indicating that he doesn't buy my excuse. He's been on my back recently about how hard I'm being on myself during practise.
Hearing his footsteps approaching, I look down at my fingers and start to fiddle around.
"Erik." He snaps. I look to my left, making sure I don't make eye contact with him.
Behind him I can see that there are still several balls flung all over the court.
I fiddle around with my hands nervously, not ready for whatever he's about to say to me.
"Are you okay, bud?" I don't know how to answer that question truthfully. Within the past 4 months I've been asked that question millions of times, Yet every single time I've answered has been a lie.

No, I'm not. Help me.
"Yeah, why?" Is all I could mutter out.

i feel pathetic, not being able to say the truth to his question even though i want to so badly.

Coach moves the pile of towels and racquets next to me and sits down. In my peripheral vision I can see him, still looking at me.

"Everyday, your play time has gone down by an hour. Sometimes you can only practise for up to 20 minutes. Your body can't keep up with you. I get worried for you sometimes. Ive been watching you quite literally burn yourself down, Erik. Why?"

I'm not okay, I wish I was. I have done everything imaginable to make myself feel okay, nothing works. I work and I play hard, so hard. Nothing works. I'm not okay.

"My dad wanted me to keep up with tennis through college, maybe even make a career out of it. I just want to train hard to make sure I'm ready for the real stuff, you know?"

Every lie I tell someone is just another stab to my chest, and i bleed all over the walls I had taken so long to build. It's so hard to not let everything out at once.

And I wish I could say the truth. .Sometimes I get close to saying it. Sometimes my mouth blurts things out, no matter how hard I try not to say anything. It gets really hard sometimes, but I have to remind myself that it won't benefit anyone in the end.

He doesn't reply right away, and I can see him look down into his hands as well. he can tell that I'm lying. He's good at detecting when I am, this isn't the first time I've lied to him before.
But even when he knows I'm lying, he doesn't say anything about it.