Drop Shots

The small rubber ball feels smooth to the touch as I roll it between my fingers. Covering my eyes with the clear goggles, I flip on the lights and step into the vacant, silent squash court, softly shutting the glass door behind me. Raising my racquet, I smack the ball sharply a few times against the plain white walls that have, over time, become sullied and marked by well-placed shots in long-forgotten games.

This is my favorite time of day to play, when everyone else is busy doing something else and the courts are empty, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Today, though, their advent is unwelcome.

Today, they are focused on you.

By some odd twist of fate - call it providence, negative karma, or perhaps mere chance - I ran into you last Thursday for the first time in a year, the previous meeting lasting only a day after three years of absence. Few words were exchanged, but they were enough to send me reeling.

You see, memories of you have haunted me these last four years. They come and go as they please, surfacing mainly when I am forced to drive past your house (which is, unfortunately, every morning) or by the church where I fell for you at eleven, too young to understand that I had set myself up for disaster. They are not feelings of longing, but rather of regret and intense resentment, the latter of which I have a hard time forgiving myself for harboring, as I know that God would not approve.

Tossing my ball in the air, I concentrate all of the energy in my body and soul into hitting it as hard as I am able, releasing my rage in physical form.

Smack. I resent you for every time that you fed me the age-old “dating could ruin our friendship” line.

Smack. I despise you for every tear-induced mascara stain on my pillowcase that you caused.

Smack. I loathe you for how easily you were swayed by your friends.

Smack. I abhor you for the nonchalance with which you brushed off my feelings.

Smack. I hate you for leading me to believe that you cared.

Smack. I hate myself for hating you.

Exhausted, I collapse to the floor of the court and just lie there, breathing, before collecting both myself and my things and leaving. I’ve had enough for one day.

A/N: Hey guys. For those of you who were expecting a Six Weeks With Satan update, I apologize if I gave you false hope. Don't worry, chapter 16 is in the works. It probably won't be out until next week, though, since all three of my term projects are due this Friday. Don't forget about SKoW, though!

As for this piece, it just really needed to come out. It's short, as it is really nothing more than an outburst of feelings, but it's also very important to me, as it's autobiographical. Please review. I'd love some feedback, as this sort of story is new for me.