Outcasts

Chapter 4: Diego

Diego Lopez's heart pounded in his ears, his breathing raspy and sweat dripping down his back. His feet pounded on the asphalt, the sun glaring into his eyes. Just a few more meters and he would beat his personal best.

Diego crossed the finish line, his coach clapping his fat hands ferociously.

"Well done, my boy, well done!" he said, the sweat stains under his pits evident.

Diego grabbed the water bottle from the table under the tent his coach had set up. Diego squirted some water into his mouth, wiping the sweat from his brow. It was awfully hot today, so much Diego wondered why he'd decided to train. The regional finals were coming up, so no matter how boiling or freezing, he would train to be the best.

"Finals are in a week, so I'm thinking three more training sessions this week, then early Monday morning before your race," his coach suggested.

Diego nodded, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "See you tomorrow, Coach."

"That's my champion!" his coach yelled as Diego strode off the asphalt.

~~~

Diego shoved open the door of his crumbling house, the smell of spicy chicken wafting into his nose.

He passed all five of his siblings, each with their eyes glued to the small and outdated TV in the living room.

"Hola," he said as he walked past.

"Hola, Diego," they chorused, neither one turning to face him.

Diego trudged to his room, his muscles sore from training all day. He pushed open his door, tossing his duffel bag onto the bed. He pulled his tank top over his head, swapping it for a loose graphic tee shirt.

He crossed the room to his CD player, slipping in the Stadium Arcadium CD and hitting play. Dani California blasted softly through his room and Diego slumped onto his bed, shutting his eyes. He was so used to training hard, but it still wore him out.

If he didn't win, or come in the top three for his age, he could kiss his scholarship and way out goodbye. Everything he worked for was to get that scholarship, get out of this town, start his life. Ever since his father had found out about his sprinting ability, Diego had been thrown into the athlete world. From the age of eight, it was training six days a week, meal plans to make sure he was eating the right things and absolutely no time for social outings. He still had friends at school; he was considered their 'star athlete'.

Diego sighed, rubbing his eyes. Sometimes, he wished he was invisible. Wished he could have some time to himself, without constantly downing protein shakes and training day and night.

"Diego, dinner!" his mother called. Diego leapt off the bed, his feet shuffling on the cheap linoleum.

Marta was making chicken fajitas for dinner, knowing it was his favourite. Diego's father never let him eat something he enjoyed, only steamed vegetables and steak. His father was working late tonight, so Marta had taken the opportunity to cook something her son enjoyed.

Diego walked into the living room, ushering his siblings to the table. Everyone took their seats at the table and Diego switched to the kitchen.

"Here, Mamá, let me," Diego said, taking the heavy platter of spiced chicken from her.

"Thank you, mijo," Marta said and smiled at him, her wrinkled thumb stroking his cheek.

They took the food out together, laying the platters of roasted vegetables, tortillas and chicken on the table. His siblings reached for the food but Diego held a hand in front of it, waiting for his mother to sit.

"Manners," he scolded, Marta giving him a grateful smile and settling in the chair at the head of the table.

Diego took a tortilla and piled the assortment of vegetables and chicken on it, sprinkling his meal with a pinch of salt. He dug into the glorious food, savouring the spices that danced on his tongue.

"Thank you, Mamá," Diego said, his mouth full of fajita.

"You deserved it, mijo," Marta said, delicately piling food onto her plate. "I've noticed how hard you've been working and I wanted to give you a night off."

Diego smiled at his mother, the strong woman who inspired him the most. She had managed to raise six children while her husband was working 24/7 and still managed to keep the house from burning down. Marta supported Diego the most, always mentioning how prose she was of him. While his father pushed him to be better, his mother always managed to put a smile on his face.

Diego wolfed down a second fajita, wiping the sauce off his chin with a napkin. He took his plate and his siblings' plates, rinsing them and preparing them for the dishwasher.

"Here, mijo," Marta said, taking the plates from him. "You go rest."

"Thanks, Mamá," Diego said and kissed his mother lightly on the forehead.

Diego returned to his room, closing his door behind him. He'd forgotten to turn off his CD player, Stadium Arcadium playing softly.

Diego sat on his bed and closed his eyes, his head in his hands. He was exhausted; not just physically, but mentally. His body felt like it was melting, each muscle so tired it just sagged, falling into an eternal slumber.

He opened his eyes and took his hands away from his face. Or so he thought.

For in fact his hands were still on his face, but they were wholly invisible, though it was like looking through warped glass. He could see through his palms, but everything was a little more... dazed. Diego stared at his arms, bewildered at the fact he could see through them.

Maybe all the time he spent in the sun today had given him heatstroke or something. There was no way what he was seeing before him was real.

But, there was still a chance it was. He couldn't rule out the possibility that what he was seeing wasn't real.

Diego stood up, holding his hands in front of him. The invisibility stopped in the middle of his forearms, skin fading into clear nothingness.

He wondered how he was going to explain this to his mother.