To Be Free
Things change every single day. Each day is like another throw from the pitcher. Some days you just get that nice fast ball, others you get a curve ball, and sometimes you get beamed by the ball.
I know about that way too much.
Half the time I can't help but wonder who the pitcher is. I can't help but wonder if the other team is out to get me. I feel their taunts and their jeers as I painfully make my way to first base. Everyone's eyes are always on me, even the crowd of an endless sea of strangers watching from the stands let their eyes fall onto me.
That's the moment when I wish I was anywhere but there. A year ago I would have wished that the ground would just swallow me up, just to keep those eyes off mine. Except I've had the ground swallow me. I've felt what it's like, and that scares me even more.
My feet seem to sink into the dirt beneath me. I struggle to keep myself from being dragged back down. I never want to be drowned in the sea of dirt and strange people who don't even really have faces. I think I catch a glimpse of several people who have hurt me. I remember when the pitcher was my babysitter, when the pitcher was Amy Hendler, when the pitcher was Nigel Crane. This time the pitcher was Walter Gordon. A man I've only seen a picture of in the newspaper. Part of me doesn't want to get to first base, because I know that once I'm there I'll have to go through this same struggle to get to second base.
I don't want to get back to home plate, because soon enough it'll be my turn to bat once more, and I'm scared that the next pitcher might take me down. I'm scared that the next pitcher might stop me from ever getting to first base again. That they might stop me from continuing to run around the bases.
I guess I'm lucky in that regard. Each time I make it all the way around. I haven't been tagged out, I haven't gotten picked off. Even better- I haven't struck out. Because that's my other fear. Whenever I'm standing over the plate, with the bat in my hands- I feel the eyes on me.
Especially Grissom's eyes. I know if I ever strike out that I won't be able to face my team again. I won't be able to look at my very own parents. I won't be able to look at my friends and my family- my teammates- in the eyes again. My Dad, and Grissom… I guess they're both like my coach. I know I couldn't make myself walk back into that dugout if I ever struck out- if I ever failed them.
Then sometimes I just want the never ending game to just stop. I'm sick of running the bases over and over again. I hate feeling the eyes watching me. Even worse- the pain is coming back.
My skin crawls as if there are still ants crawling all over me. My head and wrist ache as if I had just been pushed from a second story window. I can still feel her hands roughly pushing me down onto my bed. I feel her fingers moving along my bare skin- moving over place better left unknown. Everything hurts, and my body seems to turn to lead. I'm not sure if I'll make it any farther.
That's when I turn towards our team's dugout. I can see Warrick watching me, along with Catherine, Greg, Sara, and the others.
Then someone hits the ball. I start to run, but it's so hard to make my pain subside enough to let me get to second base. Each time my foot hits the dirt it begins to sink. They all start to yell at me to get to second base, to hurry.
Except for Warrick. His are the only words I really hear anymore. He tells me not to fall. He tells me not to sink. Because Warrick doesn't give a damn about the game, he cares about the players. He just wants our team to get back home safe and sound.
Only- I'm not so sure that's possible for me anymore.
I force myself to keep running. Tears mix with sweat, and it takes all the strength I have to make it to second base. I slide into the base. I feel the dirt grating against my shirt, and my arms. The last thought I have before my fingers touch the comfort the fabric base is that it was more of a fall than a slide. No one says 'He's out' or even 'He's safe'- the angry eyes of the otherwise faceless second baseman is enough to tell me I barely made it.
I look back to search for Warrick, only to find that he's no longer in the dugout.
Catherine and Greg have taken his place, and I feel stronger by seeing them. They keep my feet from sinking into the dirt as I stand up. Only it isn't enough that they're keeping me grounded.
They may be keeping me from drowning, but I need more. Now more than ever I just want out of this game, even more so when I see a woman with blonde hair and a familiar flower tattoo on her palm being led away from first base. As they're dragging her away she falls to the ground, and her body spasms before going still.
She's out. She's been out for a few months now, though I'm only just now realizing that she was out before I watched her kill herself.
There's only one thing that I want now.
I want to be free.
I want to leave the game behind- I want the eyes to go stop watching me, I want the pitcher to drop the ball and walk away. Only it seems like the stadium is surrounded by Plexiglas, and for a moment I wonder if there is a way to escape without losing the game.
For those still in the dugout, it's enough that they're standing on the ground and not sinking, not drowning. It's just not enough for me. I need out, I want out.
Because I want to be free.
Then I feel a hand on my shoulder. I don't have to look to know that it's Warrick. He doesn't care about the rules either, and if asked I can just hear him say that rules are meant to be broken. I don't know where he's been this whole while, but he's beside me now, and that's what matters. When we see the ball fly he runs with me.
He doesn't leave me behind- he doesn't let me fall. Somehow we make it back to home plate, and he smiles. I smile back. Only I'm still afraid of going back up to the plate once more.
Warrick drags me away from the others gathering around home plate. I know I never have to worry where he'll take me, because he's Warrick. He's my best friend.
"Close your eyes."
Apparently I hesitate because he asks me again, and he tells me to trust him. I answer him by closing my eyes. For the moment the game is forgotten, and I'm sitting in his truck. I don't know where he's taking me, but I do know that I trust him.
"Alright- open your eyes, bro."
So I do. I see the two paraglides waiting for us. I give Warrick a hug, and the best smile I can muster at a moment's notice. This time it's not even hard.
We suit up, and minutes later we're carefully making sure the straps are correctly in place. We check our instruments and make sure everything is working properly. And then we jump. The air carries us up, away from the ground.
The game is left behind, and it's only us. The stadium fades in the distance and I let the exhilaration flowing through me.
"Woo! Damn, we should've done this years ago!"
Warrick's whoops and shouts are hard to fully hear as we soar through the deep blue sky. Vegas sits miles away, though clearly visible from such heights. I turn to look at Warrick, and for a brief moment we both give each other a smile.
Because Warrick knows I need to be free. He knows I need to fly.
The End