Past Brilliance Part III

This is the last installment of my writing portfolio. I hope you've all enjoyed reading some of my work.

I.

7-6. He had barely pulled the set from my fingertips. I’d had him on the ropes, but just like every other time, he had pulled off two magical shots in a row to draw the set even. Then, with an ace serve and a magnificent service return, he jumped in the air as his cry of “Come on!” echoed through the stadium. His 6’1” frame swaggered back to his chair with that air of ultimate supremacy he held over other players. Yet he was not arrogant. He was not selfish or stubborn. His sense of humility and grace went hand-in-hand with that air of superiority. Nobody had anything but respect and awe for this man. He was the greatest player to ever walk this earth. He still is and always will be the greatest player ever to play the game. And I had almost taken a set off him. It was a bittersweet moment, for if he got that first set under his belt, he only played stronger. Faster. Smarter. Better.

*

So close! I was one point away from taking the second set! Man, you just can’t let him off the hook. If that lob had been an inch deeper, I could have walked back to my chair with a sense of equality. Or something close to it. With that second set gone, I began to realize that, all things considered, he would always be better than me. All the work I had put into getting to this point just couldn’t reach the level of skill, wit, elegance, and speed that he used to dominate every opponent.

I got up from my chair and walked to the baseline. I had two options. I could fight as hard as I could to make this match as intense as possible, or I could give in, considering how steep of an incline I had to conquer. I chose the former. The American spirit in me cheered me on, urging me to fight to the death. I could hear my name being chanted. I took a deep breath. The crowd began to mount a final roar, hoping I would rally. Suddenly, there was a loud crash.

My roommate had dropped his suitcase. I rolled over. 12:45. I had to get up in less than seven hours. Roger Federer’s face flickered in front of mine, and I smiled to myself, realizing that I had come so close to beating my idol.

II.

Calm. Peace. Brightness. I stood up. Trees of all colors swayed gently in the breeze, whose breath delicately blew across my face. Sunlight filtered through the high canopy, its fingers gently caressing the ground below. A certain tree beckoned to me, its branches swaying hypnotically. I walked towards it. Golden pears glowed in the dancing beams of the sun. I was under it now. I slowly reached up and plucked one of the radiant fruits. I held it in my hands, admiring its perfection. Sparkling light bounced off my treat as I slowly brought it to my mouth.

A sliver of light landed upon my face as my roommate went off to brush his teeth, leaving the door ajar. 12:49. I could almost taste that juicy, succulent pear and I longed to fall asleep again and return to that place. I buried myself in my blankets.

III.

Clouds flew past me. I was weightless. Flying? I couldn’t be. Suddenly, I broke through. Mountains loomed in the distance. I looked down and gasped. Rugged terrain passed underneath as I soared above. Fields, meadows, forests, houses – all passed beneath as I blazed over them. I dove. I rushed toward the ground with such speed that wind didn’t even whistle in my ears. I was a silent predator. An invisible ambassador of flight. I pulled up with such poise and strength the world had never known. I slowed enough to wave to a small child playing in a garden. He waved back with a huge smile on his face. I winked and was off again. I angled up and ascended to the top of the tallest mountain. Everything was a blur. Suddenly, I was falling. Cold air engulfed my body.

I shivered. My blankets were falling. I lunged for them as they plummeted toward the floor. Success! Yet their pleasurable warmth could not stop the shiver running down my spine. Falling. The idea terrified me. 3:45.

IV.

Blood flowed freely from the gash that had been torn into his upper lip. His arm had been broken and now it lay there, bent into a grotesque shape that should never be on the human body. His body lay crumpled, defeated. So broken. So lifeless. Bruises numbered with the freckles that populated his arms, neck and face. The only signs of life were the short, gasping rasps that escaped the threshold of his mouth. And there I was. They tied me to a chair. They made me watch as they picked him up and slowly beat the life out of him. I had no power. I had no control. I sat there and watched him slowly buckle. I was crying: tears covered my face. I kept shouting for them to stop. I pleaded with all my might. Yet my attempts were futile. Another punch to his gut. Another slash at his face. His groans were the worst part. After a while, he gave in. He fought no more. The spark that had initially glowed upon his face had burned out. With a final, helpless glance at me, he collapsed. But they didn’t stop. They kicked his sides. They hit him with bats. They slugged him with crowbars. His back. His legs. His head.

Suddenly, there was silence. They stood over him, gloating over the body they had just shattered. I wanted to look away, but the sight of his broken body, once so strong and virile, was something I had never hoped to witness. With a final jab at his stomach, they left the room. I was all alone. My best friend was dead. From somewhere in the ceiling a spotlight was switched on, illuminating me in a small circle of unfeeling, unforgiving light. I squinted in the sudden brightness. Someone was approaching. He was holding a knife in his hand.

The first rays of dawn peeked in through the window. 6:50. His face, so full of agony and hurt, swam in front of me, his eyes fixing on me with such sadness that I had never expected to see. No. Please, God, no. I jumped out of bed and flew across the room to my desk. I had to make sure he was all right.