Chlorine Curse

“Winner of the Gold Medal, and Olympic Champion, with a time of four minutes and 9.25 seconds, representing the Russian Federation, Emil Viktorovich!” Looking down at the water I had conquered, holding the medal between my teeth, salty tears formed in my eyes, clouding my vision. People from every country cheered my name as I held my gold… my gold… Except, this gold was not mine. At least it shouldn’t be. Should it?

Vladivostok, 2017. I was twelve years old. The national swim meet was approaching. And I had just learned that I would be competing against my best friend, and biggest rival, Mischa Malakhov, (whom our team called, “Акула”, or “the shark”). Normally, this would have not been a problem. Mischa and I loved to compete. There was no ill will, no bitterness between us. Only companionship. Like two sailfish, racing after a school of marlin, sharing the meal. We had a strong bond, rooted in camaraderie and respect. Until we didn’t. Until I screwed it up. This year, there was going to be an Olympic scout at the big meet and he could only choose one boy. There was no doubt that Mischa and I were the most skilled boys in our league. We knew it would come down to the two of us.

Every morning at 5:30, I rode my bike to the recreation center, and trained. After a quick stretch, I would drop into the blue and begin to work. Nothing woke my body like the warm chlorine of the pool. I felt my joints and ligaments become oiled. My blood, pumping. My skin, refreshed. My lungs, open. My mind, awake. But most importantly, my heart aflame, with a determined fire that could never be doused. A fire that burnt anyone who came too near. As I slammed into the wall, I heard a voice echo off the tile. Mischa, with a timer in his hand.

“51.25 seconds. Not bad,” he congratulated. Mischa’s record in the butterfly stroke was 48.51 seconds. That was faster than most Olympians. This was a twelve-year old boy.

“You timed me? How long have you been here?” I panted, embarrassed. Butterfly was his best stroke, and my worst.

“Just about two minutes,” he groaned, beginning his dryland warm-up.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, threatened. Mischa never trained in the mornings. He didn’t need to. He was, unfortunately for me, a natural. I trained every morning, and every afternoon, and yet I could never beat Mischa. I never needed to. When Mischa and I competed against each other, it was all for fun. Because at the end of the day, it was a community swim meet. Not Nationals. Not to be judged by scouts. But times were changing.

“I thought I’d get some extra training in.”

“You? Extra training?” I scoffed. Mischa already took to the water like…well…a shark!

“I’ve got some steep competition, Viktorovich.” I should have been flattered that Mischa was training extra in preparation for our race. Instead, this frightened me out of my mind. The last thing I needed was Mischa getting even better. This infuriated me. Mischa had it made. He didn’t even need the practice like I did. Yet, he was in the pool at 6:00 утра, smiling back at me.

“Wanna race?” He challenged with a smirk. He sounded like a little kid. I tended to forget we were both children. We were treated as if we were professionals, and had been since we were ten.

We stood at the edge of the pool, tricked out in goggles and swim caps. We touched our toes. 

“Take your mark…GO!” 

We soared from the edge of the pool, cutting through the water like the blades of a propellor. Five seconds into the stroke and I was already in his wake. What was it about him that made him so much better than me? It was as if his body was perfectly engineered for swimming. Like God had specifically molded every curvature of his arms, legs, and torso to effortlessly propel him to victory. I was exerting every muscle in my body, training twice a day, perfectly calculating my breathing. And Mischa was just having fun at the pool. Yet I was still three seconds too slow. But the worst part of it all, was how humble he was. I wanted to hate him. Maybe that would motivate me more. But he was my best friend.

“Good race,” He sighed.

“Again,” I demanded.

So we raced again. And again. And again. Until it was time to get ready for school. Even then I could not escape him. He was all the boys in my homeroom talked about.

“So how do you plan on beating Акула?”

“Did you know he already swims at Olympic speeds?”

“His stamina is so good he barely has to breathe. That’s why they call him Акула!” Акула this. Акула that. Акула, Акула, Акула!

I would go home exhausted every night from hours of swimming. Мама would tell me not to push myself so hard. Not to worry so much. She told me how proud she was of me every night. That I am enough. But she just didn’t get it. I needed to win. If I could just win this one meet, it would change my life forever. My future rode on defeating Акула.

When I went to sleep at night, He was there. In my dreams. I remember it would start with us at the edge of the pool. We would begin the crawl and when I finished, he wouldn’t be there. I would call for him. But no one would respond. So, I would begin to train on my own. But, once I began to swim, I would see him. But he would not be himself, rather, a bloodthirsty shark I could not outswim. I would always wake up right before he would finish me off. 

“Damn you, aкула.”

Mischa continued to train in the mornings with me. One morning he told me he would rather be a musician than a swimmer. I told him that was the stupidest thing I had ever heard. 

I then asked him, “Why are you even competing, then?” Why did he have to torture me?

“It’s fun!” He answered, with a look of childlike innocence. 

I had never been so furious. “It’s fun.” Yes. Swimming is fun. But it’s not a game anymore when scouts arrive. It’s not fun when you get beat by someone who doesn’t even want to be a swimmer. It’s not fun to become obsessed with beating your competitor.

I did not go to school that day. Instead I took my bike and I rode to Steklyannaya

Bay. This was the one spot I could escape from everyone; my special spot for when I needed to be alone with my thoughts. The sea glass glimmered along the sand, as the sun rose into the sky. I tossed a rounded, opaque, shard of glass as far as I could. I liked to believe that if I threw them hard enough, they might fly all the way to Japan. I picked up another piece of sea glass, but decided to keep it. The stone was purple, with swirls of blue inside. It was far too beautiful to be thrown away. 

Just as I was about to leave, I heard the sound of a woman crying from across the beach. She was a beautiful Russian Romani woman, with long, sopping wet, black hair that clung to her arms and back like a shawl. She sobbed into her long colorful skirt, adorned with charms and little gems. I had never seen a person so heart wrenchingly depressed before.

“Excuse me, miss?” She whipped her head up at me, startled. “Are you alright?” Clearly she was not, but I thought I might as well ask. She had a fine line tattoo of swirls and fish-scales covering the right side of her face.

“Yes,” she then sobbed with a smile. “I am just in mourning is all.”

“My condolences,” I whispered. I began to leave.

“Wait! Please stay with me a moment more,” she sniffled. “I am lonely.”

I typically knew better than to sit with strangers I found crying on the beach, but this woman clearly had no bad intentions. I checked my watch. At this point I had been sitting with her for fifteen minutes. 

“You seem troubled too,” the woman said, wiping away her own tears. “What is ailing you?”

I am not the type of person to talk about my emotions, but I had to get this out of my system. And this woman, whom I did not know, was the best person to share my troubles with.

“Well, I have to compete against my friend Mischa in a swim meet. Which would normally be fine, but an Olympic scout is going to be there, and there is no way I can beat him. And Mischa doesn’t even want to swim professionally. He wants to be a musician! He doesn’t take it as seriously as I do. But he’s got so much potential that the scout is going to want him and it’s not fair!” I ranted. Then realizing I had just dumped all of my problems on this strange, already depressed, woman, I apologized.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. I just…I wish I had a better chance at winning.”

“That does sound frustrating,” she agreed. I sat for a moment more. I was hungry. I hadn’t had anything to eat yet. There was a restaraunt a block away.

“…I need to go now,” I announced. I remembered the glass I had picked up, and fished for it in my pocket. “Here,” I said, handing her the purple shard of glass. “Thank you for listening to me. And I’m sorry for your loss.”

As I walked up the steep dunes of the beach I heard her say, “You will win your race. I am sure of it.”

“Thank” I turned around to thank her, but she had vanished. “...you?”

A Rusalka!

The sorrowful spirit of a drowned woman. I never told anyone what I saw that day. They would think I cracked under the pressure and hallucinated the spirit. I felt a sense of gratitude towards her for not drowning me, as she did with most men. Many people who see the Rusalka do not live to tell the tale. I suppose my kindness touched her heart, or she didn’t want to kill a little boy. Either way, I soon came to regret staying with her that morning.

It was now the day before the meet. Mischa showed up at our regular time for our training session. He tucked his bleach-blonde hair into his swim cap and we began to race. We raced. Again. And again. And again. I shaved off two seconds. I was improving. But I could not say the same for Mischa. Halfway through his front crawl, he asked to stop. Mischa never stopped. He swam to the edge of the pool, pushing himself out with his perfectly toned arms. His skin began to break out into a burning rash, covering his arms, legs, and back. Mischa went to the doctor that afternoon. Later that night he called me on the phone.

“Doctor said I’m allergic to Chlorine,” Mischa sighed disappointedly.

“But you weren’t before?! How can that happen?!”

“Apparently, allergies can develop out of nowhere…I won’t be able to compete. I’m quitting the team”

The Rusalka granted my wish.

What have I done?! This isn’t what I meant! I just meant I wanted to win! Not ruin Mischa’s career! I didn’t mean it!

“What?!” I shouted. “Can’t you swim just one more time?” This wasn’t how I wanted to win!

“I can’t. It burns like hell.”

“But Mischa…you..” I stuttered, mourning the loss on his behalf. “You’re Акула!”

“Yeah. I am…But I guess sharks can’t swim in Chlorine.”

“I’m not competing without you!” I stated, tears in my eyes.

“Don’t you dare say that, Emil!” Mischa snapped. “You’ve trained harder than anyone I know. You can’t just throw it all away over me quitting.”

“I can’t. I can’t do it!” I don’t deserve it! Not like this!

“You have to…”

“Mischa…” But the damage was done.

“Emil, you’ve been the best rival I could ever ask for. Please. Don’t feel bad for me. This wasn’t my dream. It’s yours. Win for me, okay?… Okay?”

I didn’t know what to say. “...Okay,” I whispered. 

“You’ve got this.”

I hardly slept that night. A burning pool of guilt had formed itself in my bowels. A giant immovable stone lodged itself in my throat. I had cursed my best friend. What had I done?

The next day, I prepared for my meet, hoping that Mischa might race anyway. As my team walked out of the locker room, I saw him, sitting in the stands, smiling back at me. “Win for me.” It was the least I could do.

That day, I swam like I was racing a shark. Like I was racing Mischa. I finished in 51.24 seconds. Mischa’s record was 51.23. We won the meet. I peered into the crowd, holding my trophy, and as I saw Mischa cheering for me from the stands, I burst into tears. Winning had never felt so awful. 

After the meet, I was pulled aside by an Olympic scout. I soon joined a team and began to compete at an Olympic level. Mischa and his mother moved to Brighton Beach, in New York, soon after, where he pursued a career in music, and became the front man of a rock band called Rusalka. I never saw him again. 

Until today.

Cheering louder than anyone in the audience was none other than Mischa Malakhov. As our gazes locked, I felt the burn of the salt water in my eyes. But then I remembered what he said to me. “Don’t feel bad for me. This wasn’t my dream. It was yours.” And seeing him now, so happy and successful, I realized he was right. I had finally accomplished my dream. And Mischa had accomplished his. There was no more reason to feel guilty about the Rusalka. We both got what we wished for.

“Mr. Viktorovich? Any words?” The press asked.

“Yes.” I cleared my throat, wiping my tears. “I would like to dedicate this win to my mother, my coach, and my good friend…Mischa ‘Акула’ Malakhov.”