Find me

10.

Targetting girls associated with the club.

Didn't seem to make much sense to me. But it could be a weird way boys deal with their rivalries. 

But why me?

I wasn't of that importance to anybody. But Neymar did come for me. 

Nothing made sense to me at all.

And I was so confused about Neymar. I had all the reasons to hate him.

But there was something that was kind of changing the shade of my emotions. Neymar, at the time, seemed to me as a dual personality sort of person. Or he was really f*cked up. Maybe even more than me. 

Anyway, something gave me the confidence I lacked otherwise. 

"Why are you doing this?" I questioned him straight out. 

It wasn't a simple question for a third person but he understood exactly what I intended to ask.

"I know what you think of me but I'm not entirely heartless."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"That you don't have to be scared of me anymore. I won't ever touch you ever again. And I will not dare to defend my deed."

"If you think that's supposed to make me feel any better, you're out of your mind."

"I have no more to say to you." He said and swiftly went out and away.

***

Five individuals were restigated off of Valencian team. I don't know how they were proved guilty but they were sent back instantly which was a relief. But I wasn't on my equilibrium. The turmoil inside me was growing. His words kept wandering in my thoughts. His face kept popping up in my mind.

I didn't know what to think and how to feel anymore. Either I could find the courage to forgive him or I could completely go stone cold to him. The latter seemed more tempting but then his teary face appeared in front of my eyes.

I hated him for sure but I knew it wasn't gonna be a stable position for me.

***

Blood.

That was the first thing I noticed when he stopped rolling on his back. It was a bad challenge. A really bad challenge. Neymar had flown 360 degrees and landed hard on his back. He didn't even try to sit up after that and it was medically appropriate. There was a dark maroon blotch on his sock and he must have been in complete agony and white pain. 

Soon, he was carried off the field, a yellow card was given and he was substituted.

The second they stepped inside the tunnel, I could hear his muffled sobbing.

I resisted it but I couldn't help feeling sorry for him. I tried really hard not to. But I just coudn't.

Battling my mind, I decided to atleast see where he is, about half an hour later. I thought maybe they took him to a hospital but no. He was in a special care unit at Camp Nou only. 

I walked down the corridors swiftly yet softly so my sneakers won't foretell my coming. I was half unsure of what exactly I intended to do. But I kept walking until I found the room. I peeped through the blinds at first and he was lying on the bed with his shirt off and there was bandage around his lower torso. More so, his ankle was dressed up. Just then his doctor clacked her heels out of the room and I clumsily adjusted my position to not appear as a stalker.

But as soon as she set her eyes on me, she snapped her fingers to me."Go inside. Somebody should stay with him. See to it that he doesn't move and the pain does subside. If not, have me called up. I'm heading back to Sant Joan."

She was clacking away before she even completed her sentence.

I slipped inside the room as softly as I could. I hoped he was asleep but I could tell he wasn't. He didn't even bother looking up to see who was there. His forearm was across his eyes and I could sense his discomfort. I wondered why they didn't take him to the hospital. He was sighing consecutively and the whole room smelled of antiseptics and bitter medicine sprays. There was a huge blotch of blood on a part of the bed indicating he had bled a lot.

I didn't know what to do.

"Are you alright?" I blurted out because that was my professional and social protocol.

He uncovered his eyes and shifted his gaze to me for a second but he didn't answer.

There were salty tears slipping out of the corners of his eyes which were glassy and red. His sorry excuse for a pillow had wet patches, I noticed. The best thing for him was if he could fall asleep but that didn't look like it was happening because he kept crying. It took ten minutes for the situation to become comfortable. When he was used to me being in the room and I was rid of any restraint from my conscience.

That is when I started thinking practically. 

I went out for a second and brought back a few things. 

"Hey, you think you could lift your head a few inches?" I asked.

He knew what I intended and he clearly didn't think otherwise. He nodded and tried lifting his head. But I had to help him so he wouldn't disturb his back muscles. I put my hand under his head and when it was up enough I changed the pillows. This new one was sleep-friendly. And I could tell he felt much better. Next, I put another pillow carefully under his feet to elevate and finally covered his body with a blanket. He was freezing and I wondered why noone had already done what I just did.

He didn't look any happier but definitely more comfortable.

"You need water?" I asked.

"Si." I heard his voice for the first time that night. It was heavy and breaking as if he had a sore throat. I was kind of aggravated that noone had attended properly to his needs. If he complained, people could lose their jobs. Anyway, I filled some water in a glass and again helped him lift his head so he coud drink water. 

The quiet corridor was surprisingly filling up with voices.

I checked outside. Then I realized why Neymar was being half neglected. There had been another player sent off with injury during the time I had been here. All priority was shifted to him. It was Vermaelen.

Anyways, realizing Neymar only had me to cater to him, I sighed and closed the door so there won't be much disturbance for him. He was trying to go to sleep. But he still hadn't stopped sobbing. He was still teary eyed. This was his trait, if he starts crying, he doesn't stop. And there wasn't much I could do professionally to help him.

When he was finally still and halfway between sleep and consciousness, I followed my instinct and lightly stroked his forehead so he could ease into sleep. There was field dirt sticking to his face along with the dried up sweat and tears. 

Eventually, he did fall asleep but there were deep lines on his forehead even in that state. He was still in pain.

Physical and mental.

I remembered how he was desperate to get back on field and now there was a contrasting sadness because he knew he couldn't do what he loved for quite a while. It made me feel sad for him but it felt like he was being punished. Maybe he was in as much pain as he had blessed me with. Maybe he was as psychologically disturbed as I had been.

As bad as it sounds, I was satisfied with that. 

Everything felt balanced again.

Yet, there was a parallel feeling running alongside. I was content with his suffering but I also had an urge to comfort him, to do my best to make him suffer less.

Maybe it was a professional obligation.

Or something deeper.

***