An Ending

The short end of the stick pointed out at me, waving innocently, as if I hadn’t rammed it through my paper cup just moments before. My coffee was going cold. I looked up and down the street. No one had seen my outburst - and if they had, no one had said anything. Typical. Everyone wrapped up in their own worlds. Who cared for my little world, a world that had just had the largest dent ripped from it? No one if not me. 

I grunted. Tipped the cold dregs onto the floor and flung my cup at the rubbish bin, but it clattered back, rolled around and landed on my foot, dripping liquid onto my old shoes. Typical. I leaned down, crushed the cup in my hand, the stick jabbed through it snapping. Then I threw it, with renewed passion, into the bin. 

Even if my arms were too weak, my chest not toned enough, my genes not tall enough, at least I could still throw a coffee cup. I laughed to myself. Then glanced around. No, still no one paying notice. Even if my ankle muscles were ripped all along, I was still here. That was still worth something, right? My therapist said so, at least five times every meeting. I was recovering. I was biding my time, cooling off. 

But when would I finish recovering? It was a never ending road of placating phrases and hopeful smiles, pressed together hands and hands rubbed through hair. No clear answers. No clear mind. I sighed, arched my back. I should probably get going. 

We are sprinting, flat out, around the obstacle course. 

“Faster!” screams coach. 

I flatten out my body, dive under the nearest post, leap high over the bar, crash towards the cushion. 

But I miss - my body flying, suspended in mid-air. Coach’s eyes go wide. I gasp. My foot lands - my body landing on top of my foot, like an improper fraction, crushing down. I’m screaming, screaming. Everyone is around me. They pat my back, offer me a hand up. But it's in their eyes. The look of mourning. The early funeral of a basketball career. 

The birds weren’t singing much that time of year. I swore there used to be more of them. I looked up, as I strolled away from my bench outside the costa. Through the trees, I could hear their calls, but I only caught glimpses of grey and brown blobs flitting here and there. 

I used to wish I could fly. I came close when I was younger. But never quite got there. Sometimes I thought my clipped, burnt wings must be dragging on the ground behind me, clear for all to see. Could that man across the road see them? See the death in my eyes? He kept on walking, not even giving me a second glance. But perhaps - perhaps he could sense it. Did I smell different? A stench of failure? I certainly couldn’t stand my own company. The outdoors, at least, provided a conversation partner. 

Something bumped into me - someone. I started, looked down. A lady, clad in a thick pink winter coat. 

“Sorry!” She stepped back and smiled, her face quivering, “I didn’t mean to-” 

“Oh, no I’m sorry,” I said, hand on head. I hadn’t even seen her. Typical. 

She studied me. Her face changed from one of surprise to glee, her eyes wide. “You’re not-” she held out a hand in front of her, “you’re not that basketball player, are you? Henry Patterson? Why, you play for the Pistons!” 

I smiled, a half smile. “Played. I played for them last season.” 

“And the seasons before!” The lady was shaking on the spot, “You were there for years. I watched you since you joined. Oh. My. God. I can’t believe it!” 

I didn’t know what to say. So in the end I said nothing. 

The lady didn’t seem to mind. She grabbed the sleeve of my coat. “Oh, would you have a coffee with me? Or take a selfie?” 

I wanted to be polite. I wanted to have a chat. But a dark thing was coiling round inside my chest, snaking its way round my throat, nearly choking me. I lowered my gaze. “I don’t play anymore.” 

The lady cocked her head. “You don’t - oh there's a shame. But even so-” 

“Henry Patterson doesn’t play anymore,” I said, gritting my teeth. “I’m not - I’m not who you think I am. Please just leave me alone.” I turned around. The dark thing was pulsing, my heart racing, squeezing. 

The lady grabbed my shoulder. “Please don’t go. I’m sorry if I caused offence-” 

Her words washed against a dark tide in my ears and I did not hear. I stamped back towards my bench and the bin. I’d go home a different way. Stupid people. Typica - 

The lady had somehow got ahead of me. She stood, arms crossed, in my way. 

“The Henry Patterson I saw on tv was always full of smiles,” she said. 

I brushed past her, my head low. 

“It’s definitely you. I don’t know why you’re denying it.” Her voice chased after me. “It’s a shame you haven’t lived up to who I thought you’d be.” 

I spun round, 180. Her face flickered. It was my coach. It’s a shame. You haven’t lived up to who I thought you’d be. 

Coach stubs out his cigarette on the changing room wall. “You had so much potential, Patterson. It’s a shame you threw it all away. Good luck, and goodbye.”

He turns away from me. Shuts the door behind him with a soft creak. 

Is there nothing more? Is that it? 

The lady was marching away, her hands in fists. 

I rushed to catch her up. “I’m sorry!” 

She stopped. Turned. Her eyes were glassy with tears. 

“I am Henry Patterson.” I rubbed a hand through my hair, “I played for the Pistons for a long while, hey?” 

The lady closed her eyes and smiled wide. “Yes, you did. I knew it!” 

I laughed. The dark thing that had been gripping me inside loosened its grip. Just for a moment. “But I got injured,” I said. My laughter stopped. “You won’t - you won’t see me anymore.” 

The lady laid an arm around my shoulder. I paused. It felt - awkward - but - she hugged me, just for a moment, and let go. 

“That must be terrible,” she said, her eyes warm. 

I paused. My chest was strangely calm. The day had a glow to it. 

“Yes,” I said, with a deep sigh, “It kind of is.”