New Year's is right around the corner, and with that, comes this story about new resolutions, and starting over.
Hope you all enjoy it!
She thrust her head out of the water, the cool ripples burning away her inhibitions. As she pushed back her goggles, a light flared up in the corner of the stadium. Then another, and another, till she shone in the glimmer of the blinding, glaring softness that bathed her face.
She reached her hand out to the stone slab at the edge. Within the blink of an eye she had hoisted herself up above the water, onto solid ground. She supposed she should have felt comforted with the surety of the rigid floor underneath her feet, yet, she longed for the fluidity of the water; its flexibility, as it molded itself around her. Up there, she felt compelled to mold herself, according to the world around her.
As someone handed her a plush red towel, she gracefully turned away from the water, with a smile on her lips. “Thank you,” she murmured, and then glided past the stands. The audiences, quick to notice her lithe figure, roared their approval. She instinctively waved back at them.
After a subtle glance at the score board, she disappeared from view, and barricaded herself in the room she had been allotted. Letting out a sigh, she sat down at the vanity table, and looked at her reflection. She looked at the strange scar on her cheek and the bags under her eyes. At the listlessness of her hair, once a vibrant black, now, dampened by chlorine. And, at the small hoops of gold adorning her ears – promises of change, and reminders of what lay within.
In the midst of it all, just for the flash of a second, she suddenly saw a darker image in the mirror. A tall woman stared back at her, with eyes and hair, as black as coal. The woman opened her mouth and screamed in agony. Her expression flitted from one of pain, to one of guilt. “I’m sorry,” she seemed to say. “I knew no better.”
“Andrea Summers,” a monotonous voice suddenly blared out of the speakers, affixed above the door. With a start, she stood up and walked out.
Her hands at her side, Andrea took her place at the winning podium. Not at the top, but close. Once again, she found herself thinking back to the woman in the mirror. She was beginning to understand the woman. Slowly but surely. Nevertheless, she pushed back the rising empathy in her mind. She would not – could not – let herself sympathize with the woman.
The bronze medal around her neck faded away into the background, emanating but a dim glow. The astute articles in the magazines pointedly stated this fact. They also remarked that the admirable demeanor of its carrier, more than made up, for the lack of its shine. “I may not be a winner yet, but I am definitely not a quitter,” they quoted her saying. Again and again, till a day came, when there remained nothing else to print.
These days, when she looked in the mirror, she caught increasingly frequent glimpses of the black-haired woman. It was almost as if she resided within her. To a certain extent, she always had.
Andrea could still see the woman wasting away. “MOM,” she would call out to her frantically, trying to shake awake the passed out figure that lay on the floor – bottle in one hand, and broken memories in the other.
The last words that woman had whispered to her daughter were those of longing. “You don’t know how hard it is, darling. To live, doing what you love, only to have it fail you, and never love you back.”
The next morning, Diane Summers was found lying in her bed, nursing an empty bottle of pills.
Andrea had always resented her. For that night, and all the nights before. Almost in the same way that she now resented herself. Quickly, she rummaged in the pocket of her coat and drew out a fine sheet of paper, and a simple blue pen. She scrawled out a few lines in her elegant writing, and laid the paper down by her side. Taking a deep breath she stood up and turned towards the tiny stars embedded in the sky. She saw them beckoning to her. It was time.
She dived into the pool, and cut through the water with powerful strokes. As she approached the middle, several indistinct thoughts flitted through her mind. Too quick to grasp and mull over. The eccentricities of her childhood cat, Murphy. The crimson dress she wore to her first press interview. The first time she swum a lap…
Then, too quick to fathom, she was there. Right above the dark red line that marked the centre. She let go. A swimmer no longer, she floated down, down and down. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen seconds. Two minutes. It all seemed the same, till her lungs started burning. Her body instinctively began to thrust upwards, but she forced it still. An unfamiliar ache spread through her chest, leaving her mind foggy.
“You don’t know...to live, doing what you love…fail you…never love you back.” Somehow, those words appeared in front of her, and all of a sudden, she was struck with a startling realization. It took her a moment to coordinate her muscles, after which, she feverishly kicked back her legs, and swam upwards, letting the water guide her.
She broke through the surface, gasping for breath. Inhaling the darkness of the night, she looked up at the light of the stars, shining down at her. They seemed bigger now.
“It has loved me back. It always has,” she whispered. She laughed.
It was the only constant in her life, when everything else was changing. It comforted her, embarrassed her, excited her, understood her. The water was her, just like she, was the water. And if that was true, then it could not have failed her. It did not fail her.
She slowly stepped out onto the ground, bent down, and picked up the sheet of paper.
However, at the end of the day, as I was leaving, she stopped me and handed me that very sheet of paper.
I’d seen it before, folded and tucked away in the corner of her wallet, but never opened it.
I slowly unfurled it, and saw a criss-cross of lines, cutting through the sentences beneath them. Making them indistinguishable. At the bottom of the page, were a couple of words, hastily scrawled, and a later addition to the original text. “Do not go gentle into the good night,” they said. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
And that’s exactly what she did. Every minute of her life, she raged against the dying of her light.”
With that, Grace walked down the stage, and laid her hand on the simple black coffin, one last time. Then, she stepped out of the Church doors, a tear trickling down her cheek. In her hand, she held a photograph of a wrinkled old woman, with gray hair, and twinkling golden hoops in her ears.
She reached her hand out to the stone slab at the edge. Within the blink of an eye she had hoisted herself up above the water, onto solid ground. She supposed she should have felt comforted with the surety of the rigid floor underneath her feet, yet, she longed for the fluidity of the water; its flexibility, as it molded itself around her. Up there, she felt compelled to mold herself, according to the world around her.
As someone handed her a plush red towel, she gracefully turned away from the water, with a smile on her lips. “Thank you,” she murmured, and then glided past the stands. The audiences, quick to notice her lithe figure, roared their approval. She instinctively waved back at them.
After a subtle glance at the score board, she disappeared from view, and barricaded herself in the room she had been allotted. Letting out a sigh, she sat down at the vanity table, and looked at her reflection. She looked at the strange scar on her cheek and the bags under her eyes. At the listlessness of her hair, once a vibrant black, now, dampened by chlorine. And, at the small hoops of gold adorning her ears – promises of change, and reminders of what lay within.
In the midst of it all, just for the flash of a second, she suddenly saw a darker image in the mirror. A tall woman stared back at her, with eyes and hair, as black as coal. The woman opened her mouth and screamed in agony. Her expression flitted from one of pain, to one of guilt. “I’m sorry,” she seemed to say. “I knew no better.”
“Andrea Summers,” a monotonous voice suddenly blared out of the speakers, affixed above the door. With a start, she stood up and walked out.
Her hands at her side, Andrea took her place at the winning podium. Not at the top, but close. Once again, she found herself thinking back to the woman in the mirror. She was beginning to understand the woman. Slowly but surely. Nevertheless, she pushed back the rising empathy in her mind. She would not – could not – let herself sympathize with the woman.
The bronze medal around her neck faded away into the background, emanating but a dim glow. The astute articles in the magazines pointedly stated this fact. They also remarked that the admirable demeanor of its carrier, more than made up, for the lack of its shine. “I may not be a winner yet, but I am definitely not a quitter,” they quoted her saying. Again and again, till a day came, when there remained nothing else to print.
*****
Andrea stood by the water and dipped her hand into its infinite depth. The world seemed much simpler here. Next to her lay a tattered newspaper article. It spoke of her enormous potential that had remained, just that. Never fully achieved, never fully realized. Next to the article, lay a pair of golden hoops. Engraved with tiny floral and vegetal patterns, and inlaid with an array of precious stones, they were seemingly ordinary from afar, but equally extraordinary up close. These days, when she looked in the mirror, she caught increasingly frequent glimpses of the black-haired woman. It was almost as if she resided within her. To a certain extent, she always had.
Andrea could still see the woman wasting away. “MOM,” she would call out to her frantically, trying to shake awake the passed out figure that lay on the floor – bottle in one hand, and broken memories in the other.
The last words that woman had whispered to her daughter were those of longing. “You don’t know how hard it is, darling. To live, doing what you love, only to have it fail you, and never love you back.”
The next morning, Diane Summers was found lying in her bed, nursing an empty bottle of pills.
Andrea had always resented her. For that night, and all the nights before. Almost in the same way that she now resented herself. Quickly, she rummaged in the pocket of her coat and drew out a fine sheet of paper, and a simple blue pen. She scrawled out a few lines in her elegant writing, and laid the paper down by her side. Taking a deep breath she stood up and turned towards the tiny stars embedded in the sky. She saw them beckoning to her. It was time.
She dived into the pool, and cut through the water with powerful strokes. As she approached the middle, several indistinct thoughts flitted through her mind. Too quick to grasp and mull over. The eccentricities of her childhood cat, Murphy. The crimson dress she wore to her first press interview. The first time she swum a lap…
Then, too quick to fathom, she was there. Right above the dark red line that marked the centre. She let go. A swimmer no longer, she floated down, down and down. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Fifteen seconds. Two minutes. It all seemed the same, till her lungs started burning. Her body instinctively began to thrust upwards, but she forced it still. An unfamiliar ache spread through her chest, leaving her mind foggy.
“You don’t know...to live, doing what you love…fail you…never love you back.” Somehow, those words appeared in front of her, and all of a sudden, she was struck with a startling realization. It took her a moment to coordinate her muscles, after which, she feverishly kicked back her legs, and swam upwards, letting the water guide her.
She broke through the surface, gasping for breath. Inhaling the darkness of the night, she looked up at the light of the stars, shining down at her. They seemed bigger now.
“It has loved me back. It always has,” she whispered. She laughed.
It was the only constant in her life, when everything else was changing. It comforted her, embarrassed her, excited her, understood her. The water was her, just like she, was the water. And if that was true, then it could not have failed her. It did not fail her.
She slowly stepped out onto the ground, bent down, and picked up the sheet of paper.
*****
“A couple of years ago, Andrea asked me to come over for a while. That day, we discussed the most random of things. The weirdest fashion trends, the best coffee brands, the key to successful water fights, to name a few.
However, at the end of the day, as I was leaving, she stopped me and handed me that very sheet of paper.
I’d seen it before, folded and tucked away in the corner of her wallet, but never opened it.
I slowly unfurled it, and saw a criss-cross of lines, cutting through the sentences beneath them. Making them indistinguishable. At the bottom of the page, were a couple of words, hastily scrawled, and a later addition to the original text. “Do not go gentle into the good night,” they said. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
And that’s exactly what she did. Every minute of her life, she raged against the dying of her light.”
With that, Grace walked down the stage, and laid her hand on the simple black coffin, one last time. Then, she stepped out of the Church doors, a tear trickling down her cheek. In her hand, she held a photograph of a wrinkled old woman, with gray hair, and twinkling golden hoops in her ears.
Its lovely
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