Even When You Make Me Cry

Someone sends him a link to a video on YouTube. It’s two minutes of him crying – a compilation of his most devastating failures caught on camera and shared with the world. He watches it eight times in a row, eyes dry and throat tight, and then he shuts down his computer and stands in the shower until he can’t feel his feet.

He stays in for the rest of the day, the TV and stereo silent. He doesn’t eat.

When he goes to bed, he feels as if a weight is pressing him down into the thick mattress. His heartbeat feels as sluggish as the rest of him and he wonders if it will give out under the weight.

He’s never been suicidal – that would be too easy. He doesn’t believe in easy, despite what the blogs say about him. He might not put in thirty hours a day like his so-called rival, but he works hard for what he has.

Sometimes it feels like he works even harder for glimpses of what he doesn’t have – a normal life, privacy.

He thinks about the video again – how someone took the time to find recordings of each of those competitions. How they weeded out his wins and tears of joy in the kiss and cry, keeping only the moments of defeat and tears of despair. How they edited it, cleaned it up and put it on display for anyone to see.

It has nearly seven thousand hits and more than two hundred comments. He didn’t read any of them.

It’s too late to be awake so he closes his eyes and choreographs a new routine in his head. In it he is a marionette with broken strings, flopping around and falling then pulling himself up only to fall again. It’s ridiculous and pathetic, and behind his eyelids, his eyes ache.

Faceless figures pick up his strings and jerk him across the ice, making him dance even as he struggles against them. One of his strings gives way only to be replaced by cold, hard iron.

The metal burns and he moves frantically across the ice, desperate to get away. They pull him back and another string breaks. He tucks his arms in and spins, feeling the strings twist above him. It hurts.

He slams to a stop, his body protesting as the strings tear at him. He ignores the pain – something he’s become good at over the years – and throws himself forward.

Skating is a silent sport – just the soft sound of skates across the ice overpowered by the music and the crowd. The skater never speaks when he’s on the ice. He doesn’t speak now – he screams.

It’s a cry of pure defiance and he draws strength from it as it rings from the walls and ceiling and makes the ice tremble. The strings snap one last time and he speeds away from them, his body light except for the one wrist, which still carries the weight of the shackle. He adjusts for it, the way he’d had to learn to do. It will become part of him eventually, and he won’t even feel the pull of it. He’ll just know that he can’t fly high enough to reach the sun.

Ice melts, so maybe it’s not a tragedy after all.

He wakes softly, eyes opening into the pre-dawn gloom of his shuttered bedroom. He reaches under his pillow and finds his phone, dialing by touch. He’s had a lot of practice with this.

“You watched it,” is the greeting and he laughs in spite of himself.

“I did.”

“It upset you.” It wasn’t a question, but it held a hint of apology.

“I needed to see it anyway.”

“Did you?” There was acceptance and a note of fond awareness in the question.

“It… hurt at first.” There’s a significant silence; they both know how hard it is for him to admit to being hurt. They know he thinks he missed his best chance for real success years ago, and they know his stubbornness and questionable choices contributed to his failures. But they also know about second chances and the sheer joy of being on the ice. They both hope it never stops being enough.

The silence stretches on, but they are comfortable enough with each other to let it go. After a while, he sighs, a sign that a decision has been made.

“You’ll go skating today?” They both already know the answer.

“I have an idea for a new program. I’ll be a broken doll.”

“Interesting choice.” There’s no censure in the comment and that’s why he called.

“I want this program to make people cry,” he says without malice. “They have my tears, I want theirs.”

“Will it make you happy?”

“Maybe? I’m not sure what makes me happy.”

“The ice,” is the easy answer, followed with a bit of teasing. “And me. I always make you happy.”

“You do,” he says, and his smile can be heard through the phone. “Even when you make me cry.”

It’s true for them, and for the ice. And it’s enough.

::end::

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