stevie ford. d7. [fin]

stevie ford

I'm not sure when it started. Perhaps it was running through the tall forests with my older siblings, feeling the shaded breeze against my sun-kissed, freckled cheeks in the summer time. Or maybe it was running away from the boys in the school yard, completely forgetting the sting of our scraped knees and the dried tears from minutes past. All I remember is the feeling of my heart pumping oxygen through my blood, the feeling of pure ecstasy and power. Even during my timid, preteen years I felt unstoppable when I ran, like I could conquer the world if I just took a leap of faith. I wasn't running away from anything. Back then, my biggest problems were forgetting to dot my i's and cross my t's.

My teachers often marvelled at my speed. I was told that if I really wanted to take running seriously, I had a good shot at competing at the Olympic level. Instantly, I clung to the idea of the pride and glory of representing my district for the sport I loved. I kept journals and diaries that would consist of sentences upon sentences of manifestations, hoping one day the universe would grant me my wishes, a vision that kept me out of trouble in fear of creating bad karma. The fear of mediocrity was held hostage in the back of my brain, a gun held to its temple just waiting for the right moment to pull the trigger.

My parents did well for us. My dad worked at the mill, a slave to our district's livelihood and economy. It paid alright, but he would often come home with a frown and balled fists, spending hours on end in the bathtub instead of with his family. The mill aged him several years beyond his time, as the wrinkles outlining his skin became more defined each day. My mom was a seamstress, but in a district that didn't value materials, she definitely wasn't the breadwinner. I descended from the calloused hands of my mother and father, yet my hands remained smooth lacking the years of hard work my parents lived through. Yet, our family reeked of mediocrity, leaking through the old broken brick of my childhood home.

Every day, I would run through the town square, training for the day I would finally gain recognition. I was just Stevie Ford, the girl who could run fast. I wanted to be Stevie Ford, the Olympian. I wanted to be intoxicated by the city lights of the capitol, by the roaring crowds of adoring fans. Running became my entire being, it became almost equivalent to breathing. My friends told me I needed to stop hyper-fixating on running. My mom told me that she could teach me the family business, in case "running doesn't work out". I turned her down every time. There was no other option besides running. If I didn't have it, then I had nothing.

Then it happened. I remember the frantic calls of my mother to my older siblings, who all had their own families. I remember the stench of the hospital, a mix of urine and lemon bleach. My mother carried a weight on her shoulders so heavy that even she, with her amazing strength, struggled. The people at the mill said it was an accident, the machinery carrying a skid of timber toppled, crushing him underneath. The doctors said he may never wake up, and if he did, he faced irreversible damage. My dad looked more peaceful than he ever had before while lying comatose in his hospital bed. His eyebrows weren't furrowed, his fists relaxed. It reminded me of my young childhood, when he would laugh and smile and crack jokes that would make all of us kids belly laugh for hours.

He eventually woke up. It took countless surgeries and endless hours of rehabilitation for him to be released. He lost both of his legs, bounding him to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. I saw my future in the IV bag as it dripped down into his veins.

My father couldn't work anymore. To make up for the loss of income, my mother had me step up and help the family business as a seamstress. I resented her for it. Hours of crying and screaming could not define how devastated I was. If I didn't have running, then I had nothing. And all of the sudden instead of being Stevie, the District 7 Olympian track star, I was Stevie, the mediocre nobody-seamstress.

My self-confidence shattered. I looked in the mirror and saw someone who was once muscular and full of energy and life turn into a skinny and frail, lifeless shell of a person. I bore more resemblance to my father than I ever had before. The only time I felt true excitement and passion was when I was able to run, but the aching of knowing my dreams were shattered was often too much to handle.

My mother often scolded me for being too cynical. She said that I should be grateful for the opportunity to learn a trade that would make me a decent wage from such a young age. She told me I was being selfish. In all honesty, I knew I was being selfish. I didn't see how it was a bad thing, though. I had to sacrifice everything for the wellbeing of my father. I wasn't that smart, I had lots of friends but I lacked the natural social skills that most had, and I wasn't even that good of a seamstress. I truly thought the only good thing I had was my talent for running.

Somedays, I still look at my manifestations lining the walls of my bedroom and hoped for a miracle. Maybe someday my fathers legs would work, or that I would win a big lottery jackpot and we wouldn't have to worry about money. But now, I spend my days at school and at the business. I had a duty to fulfill to my family. Running was nothing but a distant memory now.