Swinging

Some days were better than others. There were the days that seemed to last twice as long and she felt so angry, so irritated. She just wanted to hurt people, dig her nails into their skin, sink her knee into their stomachs, bring her fist up to their heads. She wanted to see them cry, see them in pain and know that she had caused it. She wanted to see them beg, plead. They would respect her then. They would fear her.1

That was why she hadn’t wanted to play softball. Last year she had been okay, but it was different now. It was the bat that terrified her. When she held it she imagined the sound it would make crashing against someone’s skull, crushing their bones, their brains that worked so much faster than hers. She imagined, almost with pleasure, how the pain of the bat would feel against her own head. She was scared. Scared to hurt herself or someone else. Scared because she didn’t know which one was worse, or which one she wanted more. 2

She played, though. She didn’t know what the other sports were like, if she would like them. She didn’t want to regret choosing to run track or play lacrosse. Yes, best to sick with what you know.3

When they handed her the bat, she wondered. Wondered while the pitcher stared her down, if they would give her the bat so freely if they knew her thought. Knew how many times she had imagined crashing the metal into their scalps, seeing their knees crumple and their skins break. Would they trust her not to do it and give her the bat? Make her switch and play a sport without anything hard or dangerous, without other people? Or would they take her away and make her log hundreds of hours at the school counselors?4

Some days she wishes they knew. Others she is terrified what they would do, think, if it got out. But who could tell? She had told no one. She tried her best to hide it from herself.5

At night she lies still and quiet while tears warm her face and snot runs from her nose. Something is wrong with me, she thinks. Horribly wrong and no one knows, no one cares. 6

She can feel the pressure, more like a lack of pressure, on the top of her head. She needs to fill that space, put the pressure there. She knows what is supposed to go there: the bat. It has staked out its territory and it will come back to claim. In her mind, she can already hear the ringing metal, feel the giant pain in her head, the cold bat heartless in her hands.7

She is waiting for the day she forgets. Forgets about the disease and the thoughts. Forgets to be afraid of the bat. On that day she will take it with confidence, her arms relaxed rather than tensed for the first time as she swings, swings hard and surely; on that day, she knows she will not miss.8

She can imagine it all. Every detail, every footstep, the faces of the coaches. She has nothing left to found out but who’s head will be under her swing, who’s mind will burst onto the grass. She waits for that day when she will find out. She dreads it, but as her mind forces her to imagine it again, she is eager. She knows, once she can swing hard enough to shatter this illusion, real life begins.9