Suadade: A Short Story Collection

Achilles Heel

Felled by an arrow ripping apart skin and shredding ligaments, the mighty warrior Achilles was ambushed. Achilles lost everything that day; his friends, his wife, his family, his life. Before this moment, Achilles thrived on the battlefield, his strength and gained immortality as his shield. His mother, Thetis, had sacrificed her sanity to do what she could to protect Achilles, even though she couldn't save him in the end. A long term injury becomes a child's downfall as the arrow affects Achilles: tearing tendons and stripping away one's sense of tenacity and strength.

Similar to Thetis, my parents have tried their hardest to protect their children. This looked different, however, as they thought extracurriculars were a good way to keep their children safe, yet occupied. From dance to forensics, painting classes to equestrian, I've tried it all. Though I had fun dabbling, the one thing that could engage my attention for longer than a couple of months was soccer. I got involved at a very young age and excelled fairly quickly in the defense position. I was known as the girl with the green cleats, as I wore neon on my feet to stand out among the sea of blue jerseys and ponytails; the one to watch out for, the speed demon, the wall. Soccer was my passion, my one devotion, and I was determined to do it forever.

Unfortunately, my perfect forever fell short. As much as I loved the field, the field did not love me back. Amidst a powerful 6th grade growth spurt my body rebelled against me, fighting me every which way. As my body stretched and pulled itself in conflicting directions, I was caught in the middle, constantly in pain. It felt as if my body was morphing into something foreign and new; a werewolf taking form on the night of a full moon. It was the type of pain that made you want to rip the insides out in the hopes of dulling a burn you can't reach. The fatigue of my muscles and ligaments took an affect on my well being and attention span. The burning and the pulling was much to bear, but not the worst. God, I wish it was the worst.

I now don't remember the tearing sensation. The sound of the crowd as I went down comes back to memory as silence. The scent of newly cut grass muted, if it existed at all. The pain, too ungodly to think about even now. What I do remember from that fateful day was the sound. The near popping of the tendons as they disconnected from themselves and sprung up into my body, like a screen, pulled down then whipped back. The snapping of a rubber band makes such a powerful sound that it was all I heard when I fell asleep at night for years.

I don't remember much about the game itself, except for the fact that I played the field for the entirety of it. My achilles tendons snapped near the end of the last half, but I hadn't even registered it until I was off the grass. The truth is that field was my sanctuary. The second my feet crossed the threshold, nothing mattered except the game. The ball. The goal. The field. My neon cleats darting across it. I didn't hear the try hard soccer moms or the obnoxious younger brothers in the stands. It was just me and my team on the field. The world was a blank and nothing else mattered. Nothing else existed. All the bad disintegrated into nothing, if only for an hour and a half.

The field faded away from view as I collapsed to the ground after the game. When the battle was won, that's when I could rest. The pain not stopping my quick feet until they physically couldn't hold my weight. A body works with no ligaments connecting it the same way a chicken's works without its head: poorly.

That day my tendons snapped, my sanctuary was taken from me. I had nowhere else to turn. When you can't run, much less walk, it becomes nearly impossible to escape your demons. I could only hobble my way onto the field after games on my crutches and foreign legs. I would stand out there and smile, biting back tears. Nothing was as bad as the pain of that loss. When the crowd is cheering you on, "We believe in you" or "You can do it," though now you can't, now it stands beyond your new physical capability. You stand out there as an idol for them to praise, something to fight for. What if by cheering "you can do it" you've pushed the child to their limit, past their limit, to the point where you're cheering on shards of glass: inhuman and incapacitated and outside of their own control. How can one justify being the wind that blows away the ashes still in the form of a person?

They mean well, they always do. The supporting fans and the parents who are trying to console the lost child. They did what they could to fill the void, trying to shove rackets into the soccer shaped abyss, like clumsy children trying to shove a round block into a square hole. Transporting me from physical therapy to specialists -sewing up the physical scars while cheering from the sidelines, "It will get better". When they wipe away the tears and say it's okay, it'll all be okay, but they don't know. As someone who is neither doctor nor therapist, they stomach the audacity to lie to a child who knows no better than to believe it. It wouldn't all be okay, not to me, as I could only see that forbidden field when I passed the school, my team resuming their practices as normal. Close enough to touch, but never in reach, proscribed by physicians.

Since my forever ended, a new forever began. A forever of physical therapy visits and doctors and overall leg wounds. The series of events acted as dominos: something that stemmed from the heel took down the capabilities of strong knees and hips, realigning more than half of the body until it was almost completely incapacitated. I now understand the story of Achilles, and I can't fathom his pain. Despite his strength, his one physical susceptibility ultimately led to his demise. Achilles had a sanctuary that was taken from him too. The battlefield, perhaps. The arms of his bride. One is not the same without a sanctuary of their own. On that battle field, Achilles died. His life was taken from him, by an arrow with perfect precision. My purpose was stripped from me too, by a traitor body. A Greek hero, defeated. A stubborn child, wounded.