The Empty Space on the Wall

There's a space on your wall where a gold medal should be. All of your other medals are neatly framed and displayed in chronological order, but where this one should be, there's only empty space.

When people ask about it - and they always do - you tell them that the frame broke and you're having it repaired. The truth is, the medal has never been displayed, and it never will be.

You keep the space there as a reminder - not that there's much danger of forgetting - or perhaps it's some kind of penance. You like to think it helps, but that's just another lie.

 

+++++
 

The waiting room was warm, certainly warmer than the cup of tepid vending machine coffee you held. It tasted like dishwater, but you held on to it anyway, using it as a shield. When you needed a moment to think - when they asked a question you didn't want to answer, you took a sip of the awful coffee.

You were alone for the moment, as if that was possible in a hospital waiting room full of distraught people. The ones who really belonged here had been taken to see him, to be with the one they called your rival. Only you were left in the waiting room, forgotten in their fear and confusion.

Coach was off somewhere handling the press and security. He'd probably have to meet with the figure skating officials as well. There would be discussions about adding more security guards, possibly assigning escorts to the skaters. It would take all of the excitement out of the event and replace it with prurient interest.

Who would care who won the gold medal? What difference would all their hard work make when all anyone would want to talk about, all anyone would remember was the one who was...

Your mind shied away from the word 'rape' as if not thinking it, not saying it, would somehow change what had happened.

You've known each other more than half your lives, but only as competitors, never as friends. There was no room for friendship when you only thought of each other as one more obstacle to overcome in order to win gold.

Still, there was an odd sort of understanding between you, even if you didn't like each other much. The press liked to play you off each other as rivals, play up your differences, but underneath, you both understood things people outside of figure skating never would. You knew what it was like to sacrifice, what it was like to push yourselves to the limit and beyond. What it was like to be isolated and lonely.

There was a painting on the wall across from you, a modern art piece full of colorful swirls and blobs - mostly blues and greens. But in the lower left, in a small section, there were drops of crimson. They looked like blood, and you didn't have to close your eyes to visualize the way you found him, unconscious and battered on the locker room floor, blood still warm on his thighs and livid bruises on his wrists and hips.

You've had half a lifetime of seeing him undressed in locker rooms all over the world. He's always been thin, sometimes too thin, but this sudden discovery of his unconscious form made him seem fragile in ways you'd never considered.

He was an athlete, strong and well-trained enough to challenge you at every competition. But there on the dirty floor, pale and bruised, he looked like a porcelain doll that someone had dropped - not broken, but irreparably damaged.

You don't remember much of what happened next, but when your coach arrived you still had a phone in your hand. He was covered with a mountain of towels and you were murmuring nonsense, telling him stories and rhymes as if he were a young child in need of reassurance in the dark. Your face was wet.

Your only clear memory is a near argument with your coach, insisting that he get in touch with one of the other skaters. It was a well-known and well-kept secret that the two men were in a serious relationship although no one understood how it withstood the pressure of competitions and the logistics of living an ocean apart.

It was the one thing that you wouldn't back down about; the partner had to be told. Later, it struck you as funny that the first time you openly defied your coach was for the sake of your rival and a man you only referred to by his country.

Your coach had given in, more for expediency than out of agreement, but you didn't care. If you ever had someone special in your life, you wouldn't want them left behind.

The ambulance ride was a nightmare, your long body squashed into too small a space while the medical personnel worked over the still unconscious body. There was an angry wound on his head where he'd been slammed into the lockers, and another bump where he'd hit the floor.

They spoke in words you didn't understand and, although you're no stranger to foreign languages, this time there was no translator.

You followed them blindly into the hospital only to be stopped by a woman with a clipboard. You took the seat she indicated and struggled to fill in the information, your eyes swimming when you got past name and age and had nothing else to offer.

It was almost a relief when his mother arrived, with his coach and the man who was secretly his partner. You handed the forms to them and slipped away to get some coffee.

You'd been the last one in the mix zone and had returned to the locker room late, looking forward to a hot shower, a change of clothes and perhaps a small treat to celebrate your first-place finish in the short program.

You hadn't gotten any of those things. You'd found him on the way to the shower and everything you wanted had been replaced by his needs. You didn't begrudge him, not really, but there was a small twinge of bitterness that your hard earned victory was so quickly forgotten.

They surrounded you when you returned with your coffee, asking anxious questions. They didn't want this to be real, and they looked to you to tell them it was all a misunderstanding. You tried not to crush them with the truth, but what would have been the point of lying?

They didn't speak to you after that, drawing in on themselves, the mother, the coach and the partner offering each other strength. You sat on the periphery and watched, still seeing the image of the battered body where they could only imagine it. Perhaps imagining it was worse, but you would never know.

Your coach arrived later, just ahead of the press, and the next hours passed in a blur of learning an official statement and then repeating it until the words no longer made sense. Everyone had questions, including you, but there were no answers.

And then the doctor came to talk to the family and you were left on the outside again, hearing only part of what was said about the damage done and the recovery expected. They hurried off to see him, but no one invited you along.

You were still holding that damned coffee.

 

+++++
 

You saw him again two days later, slow moving and pale as he entered the locker room. He was trembling so hard you could see it from where you stood, your eyes politely averted.

His partner helped him to a bench well away from where you'd found him. They accepted the brief greetings of the other skaters, you included, but no one came too close and no one lingered. There was still a competition and you were all still trying to win.

You'd heard through your coach that he'd been advised not to skate and that he'd chosen to ignore the advice. It was typical for him, but it made you feel better to see him here, even if he was a shadow of himself. That he even made it through the door was progress as far as you could tell.

His partner changed first, then helped him into his costume. It was tight and it must have hurt but he kept insisting, cutting off any murmured concerns.

You were in the same warm up group and it was immediately obvious to you that neither man was going to be competition. He was in too much pain, especially for the jumps, and his partner was too distracted.

Partway through the warm up, he fell on a simple jump and needed help to get up again. When he stood, there was a faint smear of blood on the ice. He went without complaint after that, and you didn't see him on the ice again for months.

His partner was easily defeated - too distracted for serious competition, and not long after that you heard that he'd retired and moved to the US. There was a small part of you that resented the news, and another part that felt betrayed. You tried not to think to hard about either, but the memories of that night remained.

There wasn't really anyone you could talk to about what had happened - you weren't the victim, weren't a loved one affected by the trauma. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and you would carry the memories for the rest of your life.

Victory at that event was overshadowed by the tragedy. No one was ever charged for the assault and eventually the press stopped asking about it. You know it was for the best, but some part of you missed the questions. Without them, all you had left was the silence, the unwanted memories, and the empty space on a wall where a gold medal should be.

::end::

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