Hold Me Close

tear me apart, put me back together

There is nothing worse than having something ripped from your grasp before you can truly savour it.

Victory tastes sour now, and I feel as though I cannot join the team's celebrations for fear that they hate me, terrified of the consequences these lies will have amongst those I actually care about. Some twelve-year-old's opinion means nothing in comparison to Mapi's or Ingrid's. Talia, who I know looks up to me greatly, should not have to decide for herself whether I am truly an abuser or not.

I'm not.

It's all fake.

Tomorrow, we will start to fix things, hopefully starting with finding the unedited videos and releasing them as evidence. In the morning, I have a video call with the lawyers who have been hired to sort it out. I think the general idea is that we will sue with the intention of settling outside of court.

The bitterness in my mouth is nauseating, and I make my way to the changing room early, wanting to take my medal off and hide it, but not wanting that to be caught on camera too. It hangs heavy around my neck, the Player of the Match award burning my hand in a similar way. And I just need to be alone. Away from the watchful eyes who have decided my fate already.

There is a cleaning lady mopping the floor in a corridor that is devoid of people, and I am blessed to remember just how easy it is to communicate in my home country. "Is there anywhere private I can go?" I ask her, pushing down every emotion that threatens to crack my even tone, determined not to burden this poor woman with my incoming breakdown.

She nods. "Ja, over there."

I follow the direction her index points me in, shoving myself into the first empty office I find.

A photograph of the person's children is displayed on their desk, framed with care and love. Their eyes follow me as I sink to the floor, back against the one wall that hasn't been converted into bookshelves. They stare and stare and stare and I can't escape it.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but now I can hear them. But it's not the children, because I have never met them. It's just... voices. Repeating what the articles called me; what people are going to think I am.

The medal I bear is wrong. I tug at it, the ribbon slicing through my skin, probably leaving lines of red indented into my neck. It shouldn't sit on my shoulders if this is what I am, right? You don't give medals to the bad guy, do you?

"Why is your medal on the floor?" I jump, surprised that someone has found me.

"Go away," I grit out, harshly wiping the tears from my cheeks that have flushed red for an array of reasons, eyes still closed.

The door clicks shut, and I assume she's not going to be leaving me alone anytime soon. "Fleur, where is your award?"

"Jaimie has it." There's a beat of pensive silence, and I hate that she is trying. I don't need her to lecture me on how to treat people, and I certainly don't want to hear her tell me that she was right all along. That I am a person to be hated, even if I know I didn't do anything bad. The truth was lost sight of the moment those videos came out.

"I... I don't believe them," she says, voice calm as though my entire reputation hasn't just been set alight with abuse rumours. "I saw them this morning."

"But we were fine this morning," I mumble, resting my head on her chest, instinctively knowing of her body's proximity to mine. "No one treated me any differently this morning. You couldn't have known yet."

"Sí, I knew already. I know that they are not true."

"They aren't," I insist, trying to change her mind.