When everything's made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.
"You really want to know why I'm here?" She nodded.
She really did want to know. The way his blue eyes widened when he saw her sitting on the bench made her believe he'd never ran into anyone at the park before. It made her wonder if he spent all of his nights here and what led him to this little starry corner of the universe instead of somewhere else.
He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair.
"I started playing soccer when I was four. My dad put me into it and it was great, you know, being able to kick the shit out of something and get congratulated for it. My mom was my biggest fan. She came to every game and every practice and she was so happy, seeing me play. She never missed a game. Not until I was ten. I waited two hours after my game for her to come. But she never did."
His voice was starting to become strained. He never talked about this with anyone.
"She got in a car wreck on the way to my game. She died instantly. Boom. Gone. Just like that."
She noticed tears beginning to form at the corners of his eyes, but she didn't say anything. And she couldn't have, even if she wanted to. He was on a roll: the words were flowing off his tongue like a waterfall--rapidly and without return.
"She died coming to watch me play. Isn't that great? Anyway, after my mom died, my dad turned into this soccer psycho. I guess it was out of grief or whatever, but he was fucking crazy either way. And he still is. I went to the doctor a week ago because my knees are all messed-up and he said at the rate I'm going and the amount of soccer I play, I'm going to need surgery within a year if I want to keep walking on my own. Something about strained ligaments and tears. And you know what my dad did? He laughed. He fucking laughed."
He took a moment to pause and throw his head back to glance at the stars.
She took advantage of the brief silence. "You don't have to keep go--"
He cut her off. "Oh, yes, I do. I haven't even gotten to the best part yet."
He took another deep breath and continued. She sat there and listened, occasionally playing with her fingers.
"When we got home, I asked him why he laughed at the idea of me needing surgery. He said, and I quote, 'You don't need surgery, son. Surgery is for the weak. And there's nothing wrong with you anyway. Nothing a bit of ice can't fix.' He saw the x-rays with me. He was there. I might lose the ability to walk on my own. But I don't need surgery because it'll make me look weak. Weak. How fucking stupid is that? So then I told him I was gonna quit, because I don't wanna end up in a wheelchair before I'm seventy and you know what he said? 'You're funny'."
He laughed. It was slightly forced, a painful chuckle of sorts, but he was laughing nonetheless. She met his eyes and she could see they were brimmed with pain. Her heart ached.
"I don't have a voice. It's my own body, my own life, and I don't have a voice. I'm gonna end up not having surgery and I'll keep playing and someday my entire knee is going to give and you know what my dad will say? He'll blame it on me. Call me a goddamn disappointment or something. Ask me how mom would feel about all of this. Fucking dick...the funny thing is, I used to love soccer. It used to be my escape from everything. Now it's just the root of my problems. So that's why I'm here, okay? Because my dad is an asshole and my opinions don't matter."
He didn't look at her. He just stared at his shoes.
"Wow," she breathed. She didn't really know how to take all of his story in. "That's a lot."
"It sure is. Now it's your turn."
***
I AM SO SHITTY AT UPDATING/WRITING
I AM SO SORRY
THANK YOU FOR WAITING
I'M UPDATING AGAIN TOMORROW NIGHT
I WROTE THIS ON MY PHONE
I'LL EDIT IT LATER
MY LAST DAY OF HIGH SCHOOL IS TOMORROW
I'M SORRY AGAIN
I LOVE YOU A LOT
THAT IS ALL
GOODNIGHT
