Cerebello Nervosa
Standard Disclaimers Apply.
A/N: from hyperdude: Hi! This time it was Apple Snapple who did the 'base' manuscript for this chapter; I did the last one! Thanks for all your support.
We actually had a question, this time. So what exactly does, 'Cerebello Nervosa' mean? 'Cerebello' is Italian for brain (courtesy of Google Translator XD) and I coined Nervosa because, though I haven't found a definite definition for the word, is usually used in conjunction with medical disorders, like bulimia (bulimia nervosa) or anorexia (anorexia nervosa).
With that, I hope you enjoy the rest of this chapter!
A/N: from Apple Snapple: Yeah, basically, I did the base manuscript and I…died. If it wasn't for hyperdude…this totally wouldn't have made sense. SO THANK HER. XD.
"Look, Ryoma, it's the National's trophy that we won this year!" Horio said loudly, pointing at the trophy that was being displayed in a glass cabinet that was next to the staff lounge, shining proudly and sparkling in the light. "Can you believe it, we won!"
"Che," Echizen said, not actually looking at the trophy. He seemed too busy looking at the ground, and wasn't really listening to Horio's antics.
"Aren't you even paying attention?" Horio asked impatiently, pulling on Echizen's arm, which made the latter look up in surprise, since he had been too deep in thought. His eyes came in contact with that sparkling trophy, the smooth metal, the vastness of it that made Echizen feel dizzy and he jerked away, his movement so sudden that it startled the freshman trio that was standing next to him. The unexpected contact seemed to burn through his clothes, and his skin prickled where Horio had touched him. The rowdy first-year's touch seemed much more invasive than any of the jostling he received from his senpai-tachi.
"Echizen?" Katsuo asked uncertainly as the trio eyed him, confusion clearly etched in their faces.
"Class is starting soon," Echizen muttered, turning his back on them and walking away.
None of them really suspected that that single jerk of the arm was what started the confusion, started everything.
Echizen Nanjirou looked up in surprise as he saw his son charging through the house, not even stopping to look at the magazine he was holding in his hands in disgust. Rather, his son charged through the house as if no one was there, and went into his room and slammed the door, causing the whole house to shake.
Nanjirou shrugged and continue looking through his magazine, humming happily as he looked through his treasures. His son's behavior probably was just some teenage hormones acting up; there was really nothing to worry about. He would probably go back to his old self in a couple of days, if not a week.
At least, that was what he thought the problem was.
Meanwhile Echizen in his room had grabbed his tennis racket and he was torn between throwing the offending thing out the window or staring at the thing. He chose the latter of the two options, his hand shaking with the effort.
That trophy that he had seen; the glistening of the metal as if it were laughing at him, laughing at his confused state. It was so pure, nothing was wrong with having a trophy, and he felt sick even just remembering how it looked like. Those three freshmen smiling while pointing at that cup proudly, happy that their school had won Nationals. That golden tint, the stupid handles, he hated everything about that thing that he had helped the team win. He could feel those handles scraping on his neck, intending to choke him, still laughing all the while.
There was nothing good about winning Nationals; nothing good about having a trophy if tennis was involved. It was something that had taken him away from the outside world, and yet he had managed to unlock the Pinnacle, an impossible feat if someone hated tennis.
Tennis had taken away everything from him, and yet he had room in his heart to actually like this sport. He had thought he had reached rock bottom, but after Nationals he felt like he was still falling, falling in a never ending spiral, as if it still had something left to take away from him; as if taking away his true self wasn't enough. It wanted more, and it didn't care if Echizen had nothing left to give.
It was just so unfair. He wanted to stop playing tennis, and yet if he did, he would become nothing. It was everything to him now, and if he let go of that sport, there was nothing for him to do in this world.
It was just so unfair.
He wanted to be stronger, wanted to be more powerful, and show all of them what he had, but the gap between him and the best of the middle-school circuit was just too great. The win against Yukimura didn't mean anything. Yukimura Seiichi, Child of God, blinded him, stole away his senses and his sanity, had already beaten him. It didn't matter what the official score said; the honest truth was just that—Yukimura had beat him without even using a tennis racket.
Echizen had only won because he'd used the Pinnacle. But Yukimura had been playing normally, in fact, he'd been even weaker than usual, having just come out of surgery. Not only that, but according to Fuji and Sanada, Yukimura too, had opened the State of Self-Actualization. If a normal Yukimura was so good, what would Yukimura be like with the Pinnacle? Sanada? Atobe? Tezuka? Fuji?
Without them knowing, they had already all left him behind.
He wasn't special at all; he was too slow, too weak. He'd trained nonstop for almost nine years of his life only to reach the level of skill that Atobe had gained in three years.
Three years. Only.
And everyone adapted on the court. Fuji against Shiraishi, Tezuka against Sanada, two great examples of why adaption was not even a talent that he could call his. All he could do was copy Horio, 'I'll beat them all with my nine years of tennis experience!'
Useless.
The Pinnacle was not enough, being happy with just tennis was not enough. He had to be stronger, faster, play harder, play better. And it became an addiction.
Every day, he had to play. He could feel the racket in his hand instead of his pencil during class, hear the bounce of balls on the courts instead of the teacher's voice, feeling the rush of adrenaline and the wind in his hair and soon his body would be itching to play. Practice in the morning and the afternoon became the highlights of his day. He was more earnest in his tennis than ever, and he was delighted with his own progress, disregarding that every time he even heard something similar to the noise of a ball he would want to play, forgetting that it was bad to stay up past midnight hitting a ball against the wall, and didn't remember what it was like not having I want to play tennis be the only thought that ran through his head.
And one Saturday morning, as he could barely stand still in the line in the grocery store he realized with stunning clarity what was happening to him.
Still he ignored it, and soon days and nights ran together in a series of neon green balls. People began to ask him if anything was wrong, but he would shake his head no, and still not admit it to himself.
He couldn't say it. Tennis was his life. It was all he had. He was worth nothing without tennis. If he didn't have tennis, he wouldn't have his senpai-tachi, if he didn't have tennis, he wouldn't have any value to him. If he didn't have tennis, he would've been completely tossed aside by his father, would've never gone to Seigaku, would've been thrown aside, unwanted, unneeded, like trash. It didn't matter if his hands would shake during classes, needing that beautiful green ball, or if he would go half-delirious on weekend trains thinking of how much he wanted to be on that beloved court.
He needed that power. He needed to be worth something, needed to stay, needed not to be thrown away.
And then one day he looked into the mirror and asked himself for the first time, Who am I?
Black bags, sallow, colorless skin. A stranger. He couldn't remember what he looked like when he wasn't tired. Sleepiness and exhaustion were now part of every day life, squeezed in between tennis, tennis and more tennis. Looking at the photo of Seigaku after the Nationals, he traced a finger over his own face.
Golden eyes, white cap, short black hair. His hair had been long once, to his shoulders, like a girl's. His father had wanted a girl, a cute daughter. But he'd given up on his father a long time ago, and he'd cut his hair off with a kitchen knife when he'd made that decision.
This is me….
He couldn't tell anymore. There didn't seem to be much to him, when he wasn't paired with tennis. And the more he looked at the picture, the less he could see of himself. As he thought, he tried to pin himself down. But there was nothing to pin himself down with. He had no personality, had no talents, except for tennis, had nothing unique about him, had nothing.
He could feel that emptiness, when he'd been consumed so long ago. Consumed. Eaten. Devoured.
By tennis.
Faster, stronger, you're too weak, too useless! Get him to notice you! Get them to see you with their own eyes! You're nothing! Useless, trash, nothing!
Nothing.
He was nothing.
He had nothing.
Standing in his room, racket clutched tight in his hand. A lifeline. What else did he have, what could he have? He'd ignored it for so long, that other kind of nothing that had emerged after the Nationals. It ate, bit by bit, and he crumbled like brittle glass. He knew this time, that if he was eaten, he would be gone for good. And it was frightening as it crashed down upon him.
He didn't know who he was, what he was. All he could do now was play tennis. It was all he'd been doing. Tennis, tennis. He felt happy when he played, and it drew him in like honey to a bee. Stronger, faster, harder, happier.
It was so unfair. His one happiness was breaking him.
He stared at his hands, and flexed one around the handle of a racket, clenching the other in a fist. They seemed to flicker in and out in the fluorescent light of his room, there one moment, see trough the next, only an empty space before his eyes.
I want to be happy. I want to play tennis.
Play. Play. Play. Play.
His hand shook, and the racket dropped to the carpeted floor, sound muffled by its fibers.
"…..What's wrong with me…?"