｡+.*𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗜𝗡 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗔𝗜𝗥*+｡ [𝘿. 𝙈𝘼𝙇𝙁𝙊𝙔]¹

I. HOCUS POCUS

"everything i've ever let go of has claw marks on it"

- david wallace foster

Feeling an oncoming stitch as I trudged back to the Morrissey's from soccer practice, my face twisted and I massaged my side. My knees, arms, hands and legs were caked in mud and my cleats were making a persisting clack against the sidewalk. Then there was the sweat I was positively saturated with--which isn't surprising considering the long sleeves of my outrageously orange uniform, the humidity, and the fact that I've been running up and down the field all afternoon(on top of the long trek back to the Morrissey's that made me deeply regret ever suggesting walking today).

Sweat and mud.

If I was any vainer I'd pitch a fit.

Luckily for the world around me, most of my girlier impulses had been beaten into submission ages ago(around the time I started playing soccer and walking back to the Morrissey's all muddy and sweaty to make it easier on them with their jobs and adult-y responsibilities and whatnot). I've gotten pretty used to walking back from practice caked in sweat and mud and mud and sweat and--more often than not--blood, scrapes, and bruises. It's how it's been ever since Ms Dodds, my therapist, suggested I play sport recreationally to help me work through my issues a couple of months ago.

I hate going to see Ms Dodds with her patronizing voice, lime green spiral notebooks with that sleek black pen that's clicks seemed to have their own dramatic, dooming echo(I'm in therapy, the last thing I need is to feel like I'm being judged by a bloody inanimate object--I've never been so tempted to nick something just so I could drop it in a toilet--), poofy hair, and beaky nose(not to mention she doesn't help me in any capacity)--but it keeps the Morrisseys, and the authorities, happy.

(even if my 'improvement', in my opinion, has nothing to do with that harpy and everything to do with my best mates; repression and denial).

Every inch of my body was aching.

I am dreading next week--when the clock strikes midnight and eleven-year-old me is booted into the new age group.

Bigger kids, a bigger challenge, and a lot more mud.

And sweat.

And mud and sweat.

In all honesty, I love soccer--and, as it turns out, I'm sporty.

Trust me, it was a bigger surprise for me than anyone.

Catching sight of the familiar street sign announcing that I was finally turning onto Bramford Lane, I couldn't help but speed up despite my exhaustion.