Absolute Occurrence is Irrelevant

Remember when we were little?

You liked baseball. I tried to play, because you told me thats what everyone played. I trusted you. I thought it was something that I was going to learn to like. But then I got older, and I went to school. I made friends, I had sleep overs, and playdates. My friends didn't play baseball. I watched closer, because that didn't make sense. Why did you tell me something, that nobody else seemed to believe was true.

I decided to quit baseball. You didn't like that. You took a bat and hit me hard on the hip. Hard enough for me to feel, but in a place no one could see. I played for another week. I said to you again, that I didn't like baseball. The pony tail you put in my hair for the game that night, ripped a chunk of hair out. I played another week. I'd quit. You'd "convince" me to play another week. Till one day I walked out to the pichers mound and screamed

"I DON'T LIKE BASEBALL! I DON'T WANT TO PLAY ANYMORE

I haven't played since.

Do you remember a few years ago?

You liked basketball. You have no idea that I liked it to. You'd play for hours, and I'd sit on the side lines. During your warm up, sometimes I'd come and shoot the ball. You never passed the ball to me. I waited patiently. I continued to practice, because one day you'd notice. We'd talk on our drives to the gym, and one day I told you "hey, I'm pretty good at basketball too." You looked at me, looked forward, and the next day picked up golfing.

And here we are today...

You're a swimmer. All you talk about is swimming. How I need to swim, how swimming is the only sport you can remember, how freeing it is. I look at the pool, and I don't trust it. I remember the times I've chocked on water, when I've needed water and couldn't find any, when I've trusted water and it turned out to be tainted.

But I walk catiously to the pool. I nervously extend my foot over the edge and emerse my toes. I bring my foot back out, still unsure if I want to swim. Or if I can. With you in the pool, constantly reasuring me of it's wonders, I slowly sit down. Putting my feet completely in, I realize the water is colder than what you described. I decide not to point that out, because part of me likes it. I begin to swirl my legs, almost splashing in the water. You keep telling me to get in. I remind you, look, my feet are in. You get mad at me, saying I need to swim, that I'm not swimming. I look at you and hiss "I'll get in when I'm ready." Irritated, I start to stand up.

You grab my arm and pull me in.

I wasn't ready to get in. I told you that. The water fills my lungs and stings my eyes, as I panic to climb to the surface. I kick to the edge. I desperately scramble to to climb out of the pool. My hair and clothes now soaked with freezing cold water. I continue to cough up the water that filled my lungs. My eyes are stinging and my throat is rough. You stand there in the pool, looking at me confused, you don't seem to understand why I don't want to swim.

Looking at you, my eyes thin into a glare. I bit my lower lip, while ringing out my shirt. Locking eye contact I fight back the urge to show you the bruise, the one that's still on my hip. Or the bald spot, on the back of my head. I fight the urge to scream, that I don't like swimming.

So I grab my coat and walk away.