I'm a fighter. My daddy was a fighter. His daddy was a fighter. It's who we are. It's in our blood. Our home is a 10X10 meter square box of unforgiving mats that welcome you hard when you slam into them. I haven't been home in a while.
A strange mixture of smells fills the tiny white walled room, burnt coffee, rubbing alcohol, dying flowers, a vanishing stench of vomit, and uneaten oatmeal. There's no point in eating it really, it'll just come right back up. The sheets are scratchy against my unshaven legs; a thin paper gown hangs off my decaying muscle like a white drape on unwanted furniture in an abandoned house. All that hard work gone. My only entertainment, the small TV up on the corner of the room, Sports Center plays the last week's highlights and one from a month ago. The announcer's voice competes with the staccato beeping of my heart monitor. It's up on the screen again; they are going to show the whole fight this time. I don't really watch it. I did the first few times; now I'm just transported back and try so very hard to make it end differently. What I would give to make it end differently… it's no use, it won't change anything, what's done is done. Even still part of me hopes I'll wake up and this will be a dream, but the nauseating pain reminds me cruelly that there is no need to fight any more.
Standing firm in the corner of the ring, shoulders back, chin up, feet shoulder width apart, clammy hands behind my back gripping the stiff white cuffs of my over starched uniform, I allow my eyes to roam the ring. It's more than a ring today, but Coach said not to worry about that. For a split second I look past the scoring table at the crowd only to be met by a bright light obstructing my view of the arena buzzing with conversation. I wonder how many people are here…
I close my eyes and images play on the insides of my eyelids – my past highlights, the Gold being placed on my neck. Chills run across the top of my skin as I force myself to breathe. Cool air tickles the inside of my nose before filling my lungs and blood with an energizing shot of oxygen. Deep breath. Pop! I can feel my bruised knuckles strike the training pad just this morning as I bounced around our hotel room carpet. Pop! Pop! You've been training for this your whole life. I can hear the sloshing of the ice water as I lower myself into the ice bath at my hole-in-the-wall apartment - the swoosh-tap-swoosh-tap of the jump rope gliding beneath my callused feet back in Colorado. You're ready.
"Welcome to the 1996 Olympic Games Taekwondo Gold Medal Match. At 5'8" 145, in blue, representing The United States of Americaaaa… Miss Korraaaaaa Naaaaakaiiiiiiiii", my name blasts over the loudspeaker and drowns out the loud roar of the multinational crowd. "And in red fighting for South Korea the defending gold medalist…" Opening my eyes I push the warm air through my slightly parted lips and let the noise in the background fade. Here. We. Go.
Coach tugs on my chest protector making sure it's tight; the blue circles printed on the white padding serve more of a target for the other girl then to protect me. I don't need it. Taekwondo is about speed, not beating the crap out of your opponent, but it helps some. To score you have to strike with some force, it doesn't hurt so bad anymore. I've gotten used to it over the years. I raise my arms slightly in front of me and the thin hard foam shells are strapped to the back of my taped hands and wrists.
"Light on your feet, Korra. Kuvera is more experienced, but you're better." Coach hands my helmet to me and I slide it on, the thin plastic coating feels familiar on my skin, and the extra layer of my ponytail pressing into the back of my head reminds me to pull it through one of the holes.
The ref's arms rise on his thin body and bend in, calling us to the center of the ring. I straighten my uniform and wiggle my belt -bought with sweat, blood, and sacrifice, forget tears; tears are for wimps- under my chest guard and step forward. Rubbery ridges of the mat against my callused feet calm what little nerves I have. The only thing I see is Kuvera's body. For some reason I never register the face of who I fight, doesn't matter who it is, I just have to win. It's the only option.
We touch our palms in a gloved handshake, the only thing those shells cover is the back of your hand. As we bow I stare at the floor. The ridges look like little treads from a toy truck tire. My feet are so ugly. Tape is wrapped across my midsole to support the repetitive pounding my feet take; barely noticeable ridges under my pants reveal foamy shin guards to protect the sensitive bone when I block kicks intended for my chest. Navy blue painted toenails stand out against the blood red mat. Ok the three seconds are up for a formal bow. I straighten slowly at the waist, arms still at my side, careful not to glance at my opponent until I've stood up enough to see her without looking up. That's incredibly disrespectful; in the movies when people bow they bend their head to look at who they are facing as they do it. I hate that. It defeats the whole purpose of bowing.
With a flick forward of his hand we begin. At first we just circle the ring, bouncing lightly on the balls of our feet, shifting and sliding, trying to get a feel for our opponent. I have my left hand, front hand, low to protect and my right hand high ready to strike, a more contemporary stance to her high and tight. I see a hitch in her slide, one I've seen a million times on film. Go. Take the chance.
As I fire off my back leg in a quick kick combo she counters with the same; I evade all but the last one that connects with a tap to my ribcage. I may actually have a worthy opponent. "Point Red."
I bounce back from her and get some space; with a step toward she swings her leg toward my head with incredible speed. Knowing it was coming I block it past me throwing her slightly off balance and rush in. My shorter arms and legs give me the advantage inside. Two quick rib shots followed by a kick to the head. I land the punches but the ref doesn't count them. Damn it. Kuvera ducks out of the kick's way spinning me in a circle and catching the back of my heel to trip me up. She's studied me as well and a pit in my stomach forms with the realization my go-to move won't help me much today. I'm falling back first to the unforgiving mat. This is going to hurt. Without thinking I arch my back and catch my self with my arms, springing back up. As soon my feet touch the rubber I pull my feet off it and send a round kick to her head as quickly as I can she stumbles sideways and picks herself quickly off the mat. "Three points Blue." The next few points go quickly, both of us on our A-game. I sneak in quick hard jab to the chest protector before her foot connects with my head, then the back of knuckles my toes tap the red circle on her side. The round ends 15-12 me, both of us sneaking in a few points in before the buzzer sounds.
Here we go – round 2. Win this and it's over. You can do it. We bow in the center and tap gloves. After an exchange of blocking each other and scoring little chest points one after the other, her butterfly to the head catches me in the jaw, where my helmet doesn't cover, didn't feel good let me tell ya', her tap was so quick for her 20th point to my chest as I stood up I hardly felt it. My jump kick to the head for 3 left her stumbling after regaining her. Down one I immediately slide my feet switching my stance and pull a left round kick, before I've set my feet, to the head for 2. She didn't even see it coming. Come-on Korra, hold on, five more seconds. She rushes me, two punches don't hit hard enough to score but the kick to the back of my head does. Round Kuvera. 22-21. Shit.
We circle each other again to start round three; hopefully I can put it away and be done – the golden point round is 90% luck. I have to win it here. This match is taking a lot out of both of us. Most points at the end of 3 two-minute rounds gets the gold. I score four landing a solid jump reverse kick to the head and another punch to the stomach gets me my fifth point to her three.
"Come on, that all you got?" I grin through my mouthpiece at the very shocked veteran after I sneak a hard front kick to center. Sweat is dripping down my face I smirk; I can already see the Headline – American Rookie Sweeps 3 Time Defending Champ.
She raps up with me, a foul for her another point for me. The ref separates and we bow before starting again but when I stand up something changes - I see her. Her dark squinty eyes pierce into mine, mouth clenching around her mouthpiece, nose wrinkled at the bridge, clearly pissed off. I feel my mouth still turned in a smirk but my heart flutters in my chest and my stomach has seemed to drop out of my body. Stupid rookie, don't antagonize her; the match is hard enough already. I can't take my eyes away from hers, I'm fighting a face; I've never fought a face... I know I need to look at her hips to see the kick coming but I don't… a face, an angry, striking, beat up, face.
What should have been blocked easily isn't. She's elevated and headed with a sidekick hard to my ribcage; the pad won't do any good, she is aiming to hurt not score. I sidestep barely; her heel crushes into my knee. Fire erupts through my body, that bombing from a few days ago is trapped in my leg.
I'm in a heap on the mat. GET UP! My fingers fight the natural curve of the shell to grasp the elastic Velcro strap of my helmet and rip it pushing the coated foam from my head. I rush to take out my mouthpiece, now gagging me as I try to pull air into my empty lungs. A blue dome beside my head. Slobbery plastic on the mat. Wet bangs disheveled from the loss of my helmet press against my forehead as I strain my head into the mat. Hands gingerly around my thigh trying to hold my leg but careful not to get too close to the screaming nerves. Come on! Get up!
I move my hands from my leg and press them down, turning my legs to be under me. Get. Up. … If it exploded before… a nuke just went off. I collapse back down and hold my leg. The iron of my blood creeps to my tongue from my lip being pinched between my teeth. Make it stop! Just make it stop. I don't make a sound my mouth agape searching for air, shaped in a yell that never comes, sweat's running down from my eyes, across my nose and cheeks forming little circles in the dust of the mat. God, let that be sweat. I writhe in a contracted mangled mess of muscle unable to breathe. People shout in the distance and a hand is on my back, why won't they help me!? Just make it stop… The blurs of people surrounding me are edged out by splotches of black and light - then nothing. Match Kuvera. Knock out. Opponent unable to continue.
That's it. Until I woke up here, wires glued to my chest, IV snaking into the back of my hand, tubes at the edge of my nostrils pumping in dry oxygen and bringing unwelcome tears to my eyes at the stinging in my nose, leg straightened by an immobilizer still throbbing with enough pain to make me vomit. You should have just taken the two points against you. You could have won, even with bruised or broken ribs, there was only 45 seconds left and you were up. You should have been smarter.
The only thing I really remember from those few weeks is the news. Even that's hazy. The doctor walked in the room, eyes dark and gloomy. I'm not an idiot I could tell something was wrong. He told me I was doing well. I told him he was a liar and to give it to me straight – that I could take it. I thought I could.
"I am sorry Korra. You completely blew your knee, suffered a spiral fracture to your femur, and shattered the top of your joint line. I've never seen anything like it." Doctor Bad-news stands at the foot of the bed hiding behind a clipboard. You dumb ass. I can't hurt you. Just look at me. I'm pathetic. "You're done fighting. I'm sorry, but your career is over. Right now our goal is just to get you walking."
After that all I remember telling him that he was full of shit – that an injury like that was impossible. I think I threw something at him, I don't really know, but now he uses that damn clipboard as a shield when he comes in here. He shouldn't though. The anger is gone, I'm ok now. It's funny; you think it would be better just to hear it. Rip the tape off and get it over with. You're never ready to hear news like that. You're never ready to hear that your life is over - that everything you worked for was for nothing.
Static electricity snaps and a small light flashes saving me from my mind. "Turn that shit off." Coach barks, deep voice scratching the air not unlike his unkempt scruff, as he walks into the white walled 'sterile' room, so different than our usual house of sweat stained mats and overused equipment. He falls into the woven chair next to my bed and lets out a tender sigh. "Korra, what am I going to do with you?" His hand finds it's way to my arm, thumb grazing my greenish pale skin. He smiles to me, mouth turned up at the corners but eyes sad as they refuse to meet mine.
Look at him, he seems to have aged so much recently – maybe I was just too focused to notice - dark hair now scattered with grey, wrinkles in his forehead, tired eyes. I miss the days when he would smile, when we would play, before I started training. Before he become Coach. "Dad - Dad. I'm ok." My voice comes out quietly, scratching my throat on the way. My hand on top of his, the coarse hair on the back of his warm palm tickles my icy fingertips; he finally looks at me, eyes holding more water than I've seen in a long time. He hasn't cried since Mom died. Neither have I. He opens his mouth to say something, exposing his teeth in a sad half smile completely different than his usual dimpled grin.
The rapping of knuckles on the glass window in my door saves me from Coach's emotional moment. In the grey frame stands a women mid-late twenties, taller then me, slender, femininely muscular, dark shiny hair pulled back in a ponytail grazing the collar of her red USA t-shirt half tucked into her Adidas sweat pants, team duffle bag in one hand and other on her hip, leaning against the frame. Freckles litter her high cheekbones and green eyes do their best to smile along with her mouth, also turned up at the corners tenderly compared to her usual cockily crooked grin. I wish people would stop looking at me like that. I'm not broken, my leg is. I'm fine. "Has anyone seen a chick by the name of Korra Nakai around here? I hear she is quite the sight." And just for a second she smiles, almost for real at me.
"Shut up ya' cocky jerk." I try to laugh back but I'm too weak, the noise hardly squeaks from my lungs. Working so hard for all those years and never taking a break have finally caught up with me. I'm not doing well. Physically at least… mentally, I'm ok. The duffel bag hits the floor and she steps inside the room. "What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in Atlanta?" I guess they moved me back home when I was passed out a few days ago. I wouldn't have noticed if they hadn't told me – room is the same, so is everything else.
Coach stands up, and pats the hospital sheets. "I'll let you two talk. Good to see you Asami." He nods to her. Something is going on. Dad grabs her arm as he walks by and gives it a reassuring squeeze. He called her here. He had to've. She should be in Atlanta enjoying the games. Not here with me.
"Hey, Kid. How you feeling?" She replaces him in the scratchy looking wool cushioned chair, worn out from too many butts just sitting, waiting, and trying not to worry. I don't have it too bad. I'm alive. I'm not going to die anytime soon. I'll leave this room eventually. Not everyone is that lucky, or are they? I'll be alive but my life is over. Stop that. You're stronger than this.
"Asami, I'm 20. I'm not a kid anymore." I tease, she is always going to call me that. To her I'm still the 14-year-old kid who followed her everywhere when I started working out with the Olympic team.
"You're like my little sister, Korra. Besides, you'll always be a kid. Who are you trying to kid?" she winks. "You're mature, but you're a kid. Don't lose that." Clearly she didn't like me trying to joke with her, she turns serious remembering the situation. "Are you ok, really?" I can hear it in her voice; it's loaded with worry and compassion, but something else too.
"I'm fine." I chuckle. I am. I'm fine. "Why? You shouldn't worry so much, neither should Coach. I can't put any weight on it yet, won't be able to for a long time, at PT I basically just flex my muscles." What's left of them. "It wasn't so bad." It just hurt worse than the actual injury.
"He is your dad, Korra, he is going to worry." She sighs heavily, a nearly visible gust of air rushes past her lips. Why are we so awkward? We were so close but there is a space between us now. Asami can hardly look at me. It's like she is looking past me or through me. I realize what that hidden thing was in her voice, in her smile, in everyone's eyes who look at me. She feels sorry for me. They all do, and that's more painful than anything that could ever happen to my leg.
"I will come back from this. You just watch me." The gaping hurt fuels my depleted energy supply. She still can't look at me. My leg is throbbing. I press my head back into my pillow and grit my teeth. I can't see straight but that doesn't matter. Her pity is palpable in the flower littered but empty hospital room.
"Look at me! Do not pity me. EVER. If you are going to feel sorry for me then just get out. I don't need you. I can do this by myself. Does it look like I will just let my career be over!?" What are you talking about? You're done. You know you are. My head begins to spin. There is a pain all over it, not like a normal headache, but one a million times that. Like my skull is a pressure cooker for my brain.
She opens her mouth to speak, still not really looking at me yet. I don't think she thought I had enough energy to notice let alone call her out. I didn't think I did either. "Look at me damn it! I'm fine..." I lower my voice; I didn't mean to yell that loudly. My face grows hot, my ears burn and my eyes start to sting. Don't you cry. You are better then that.
She meets her eyes with mine and smiles, still softly, but at least it's a real smile. "I wouldn't be."
"You would. You're the toughest person I know." I have to look away; I watch the rising and falling of the green line flash across the screen of the monitor, the beep hardly audible anymore. She finished a fight on a broken leg, I couldn't do that. I crumpled. I wasn't strong enough and I should've been. It's embarrassing.
"I know you're not referring to my broken leg. This is different and you know it. This is not about being tough. Not right now. It's about getting better. You can't get better if you don't accept what's happened, Korra. It's ok. Invincibility isn't a characteristic we get to possess."
"I swear, if you tell me about how I'm grieving and in denial I'll kick your ass. They already sent some bull shit shrink in here to do that."
"You couldn't even if you tried." A crooked grin back to me wrinkles her left cheek. "You've never beaten me." Finally. She's done tiptoeing around. Carbon dioxide builds below my sternum and I let out a yawn. I'm so tired all the time now. "You should sleep. Your dad told me you haven't been sleeping. It looks like you've been in a fight with those two black eyes for crying out loud."
There's an awkward silence slowly filling the room. Fighting. I wish. Why did it have to be fighting? "I can't – sleep I mean." I'm hurting but I don't want to admit it. Not just physically. It's comforting to have her here with me even though I don't like talking about… things.
"Is it the pain?" She checks my IV bag and presses the button on my med drip. A warm sensation spreads in the back of my hand as the meds enter my blood stream.
Say yes. Lie. Don't' give in to it. "No." Damn it, you wimp.
"Korra, look at me." I can hear her lean forward in her chair, elbows resting on the stiff mattress as she takes my hand in both of hers. "There is nothing to be embarrassed about."
I look at her now, my mentor, my friend, the pity is gone but the worry is still profound in her sparkling green eyes. "What am I going to do?
She pulls the chair up closer to the bed and brushes my forehead with her hand gently. "I don't know kiddo," she grins, "but hang in there. You'll figure it out. It's going to be ok. " Her lips still smile down at me but her eyes are tired and sad and troubled. "It will."
My eyelids feel too heavy to keep open, my eyes close. I get a feeling in my gut, and my heart drops. It won't. How could any of this be ok? I'm not a fighter any more. I'm a 20 year old has been. Not even a has been, I'm a "she would have been great but…" that's what I am. I wasn't on the scene long enough to be a has been. I was just getting started…
The room is dark now and empty. That beeping ushers me from my sleep, green glow making shadows play on the bare walls. I need out of here. Slowly sitting up I squeeze my disappearing core to swing my legs off the side of the bed. The wires and tubes tangled around me pull, holding me there like prey in a web. Reaching out I turn the monitor off. Finally no more beeping. The sticky leads pull my skin with them as I remove them from beneath the gown. I take the plastic tubing from beneath my nose and breath in the stale hospital air, only slightly less dry then the oxygen, as I close off the IV and remove the tube from the needle like I've seen the nurses do.
Relief rushes over my skin as a chill, I'm clear now. Using my atrophied shoulders I lower into the wheelchair. My hands, no longer bruised along the knuckles for the first time since I can remember, take the cool tires and push. Rolling me out of the room, through the maze of empty white halls. I stop when I get to the therapy room. What am I doing here? I open the door and roll in, lights turning on from the motion.
There they are. Two parallel bars, a little over waist height. I saw a man using these to start walking this morning. Suddenly I know why I'm here. I'm going to walk. I wheel myself over to the start and take the smooth wood in my hands. Everything in my body screams at me. Don't do it! There's no use.
Slouching over I stare at the disgustingly clean mat, this one softer than my home, no ridges, no sweat stains. Who am I anymore? What happened to me that I just gave up? No more. I sit up and lift my chin, taking hold of the straps on the immobilizer I release them and let it fall to the floor. For the first time in a month I feel like I can breathe. This won't get the better of me. If I can't fight again, I'll walk again.
Using my left leg and arms on the bars I stand, right foot dragging across the mat. Lactic acid burns in my quivering shoulders and sweat from my palms dampens the dry wood. Sliding my left arm down the rail I step forward with my good leg. It almost buckles as I feel my body weight on my foot. Deep breath. Here we go. I shift my right side forward this time and place the ball of my foot down.
An involuntary cry fills the room and pain rips through my nerves. My arms start to give, I'm caught by my armpits slamming hard into the poles. I fight the tears back and I'm 12 years old again. Dad screaming at me "Ten more pushups! Lets go! No water till you finish this set!"
"Dad, I can't. I can't do it!" my hands and knees planted into the cement floor as I try not to collapse.
"Finish." He spits down at me, toes of his training shoes peep into my vision. "DO IT. NOW."
"Dad, please." I pant as I straighten my legs and try to press out my one hundred and ninetieth pushup of the day. I collapsed and eat the ground hard, cheek now smudged with damp dust of the empty gym. I look up to my father unable to go anymore, pleading for mercy.
"I'm not your dad. I'm your coach. Do you hear me!? No child of mine will embarrass me like this. You are pathetic. Don't come upstairs 'till you finish." The only thing I hear is the door slam as he leaves me laying in the floor. Finish. Back in the room I straighten my arms putting my hands back on the rail, gripping as hard as I can, and lift my falling body. I did it. I took a step. Again.
Left foot. Good. Right. Shockwaves of fire tear through my body at the weight on my leg. Another cry passes my clenched teeth, my stomach churns I want to vomit it hurts so bad. I do my best to steady my arms. Sweat is pouring from my forehead, leaving little droplets on the too clean mat. Every muscle in my body strains to keep me up, my shoulders tense and lock in a cramp. Keep going. Keep going.
Left foot. Better. Right. Pain flashes in my knee and bright lights in my face. The roar of the crowd fills my ears. Out of the light I see Kuvera descending down on me. Heel connecting straight to my knee. I see myself twist to the ground; muffled voices surround me as I writhe in pain in front of thousands and thousands of people. My hands slip from the handrails, heart pounding, I can't get that last image from my mind, me straining into the mat as if I'm trying to sink into it. It had always taken away my pain before, helped to hide me when I didn't want to face what was going on, why would it stop when I needed it most? It plays on repeat, falling – the death of my career - as I crumple to the smooth mat beneath me. Agony, pain, torture couldn't be worse then this.
Tears land, mixing with droplets of sweat. What was I thinking? I can't do this. I'm done. I can't do this anymore. I give up. Pounding a closed fist down trying to dull the misery, feel something remotely familiar. I dig my forehead down, straining to bury the pain; the familiar pressure on my forehead hits me in the gut like the punches to my exposed core trying to toughen me up as I learn to take punches. - I never got up. I never got off that mat. I'm still there. On the ground in that arena. Writhing into the mat. Broken. - No. Not anymore. I refuse to stay down on that mat where my career ended before it had the chance to start. It's time to make a decision. Fight or give up. It would be so much easier to give up but that's not who I am. It will never be who I am. I realize as I lay on the mat that though I can't stand up yet, I will. I'm a fighter.