VOID

Chapter 1

The sound of the alarm going off is music to my ears.

One month. That’s how long I stayed in my room. It was complete torcher for me. But maybe that’s what you get for standing in the middle of the road, staring at the sky like a wannabe lunatic.

Yes, I didn’t die that day, unfortunately. I was hit by old Mr. Hessington, that poor man. I don’t even know how he dragged me to his car with those fragile hands of his. The road was deserted, except for him and me, from what I have been told. He took me to the hospital from where they called my mother. Mr. Hessington paid for all my hospital expenses, even though it wasn’t completely his fault but he insisted.

1 month ago

My eyes feel heavy as I try to open them. My head feels like it weighs hundred pounds. After a little struggle, I open my eyes and find my mother looking at me. She was sitting beside me on an uncomfortable chair and was leaning towards me. Her eyes were moist with tears.

“Ava baby” she whispers as a sigh of relief leaves her “Do you have any idea how worried I was?”

I don’t say anything; I feel uncomfortable making eye contact with her, fragments of our last conversation still raw in my memory, after she draws back from her one sided hug.

“I will call Dr. Anderson now, okay? You keep tight until then.”

“I want to sit.” I tell her in a hoarse voice, “And I want water.”

She supports my back and helps me sit on the bed I was lying on and gives me a glass of water which I gulp like my life is dependent on it.

She leaves the room to call the doctor after that, which gives me time to take in my surroundings. The room is pretty small with white walls and smells like antiseptic, my right leg is wrapped with white plaster, like the ones you see in movies, ‘great’ I mumble to myself. I don’t feel any pain in my leg, probably because of the painkillers they would have given me. I see a few cuts here and there, other than that, I don’t find anything major.

Just when I’m about to lift my hospital tunic to check my abdomen for any bruises, a middle aged woman enters the room with my mother.

I’m quick to remove my hand to avoid giving them any wrong ideas. She gives me a funny look,

“Hello Ava, I’m Dr. Anderson. How do you feel right now?” she asks me in a professional yet motherly tone.

“My head feels heavy, other than that I feel fine” I reply.

 She nods her head and takes out an x-ray from a folder.

“You see this?” She says by showing me a crack on my fibula, “You have a fractured fibula, Ava.” She says it like I have lost a limb or something.

“I would have never guessed.” I grin and point towards my right leg.

She lets out a small chuckle, while my mother smiles faintly.

“Before I tell you about the medication you will be taking and the month long bed rest you will require, there is something else I need to tell you, hon.” She fixes her gaze at me, “Your mother here tells me you play tennis, is that true?”

I nod slowly, “Yes, I do.” I tell her while internally bracing myself.

“Well, I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.” She pauses for five long seconds and my heart starts to beat like crazy in my chest

“You won’t be able to play tennis this season.”

 “For how many months exactly, doctor?” feeling panic seep into my voice as I quickly make plans in my head to train harder once they remove the plaster.

“I mean this tennis season.” My heart drops, “You can’t play this year. Your fibula bears one-sixth of your body weight, if you put strain on it even after two months, by playing a vigorous sport like tennis, you might lose the stability of your ankle for life.” She looks at me with pity.

“Doctor, if I don’t play for a whole season, I might lose my mojo forever and” I gulp, already feeling helpless. “And I haven’t even started playing pro.” I try to reason with her. Competitive season starts in five weeks; this cannot happen now.

“Ava.” My mother calls me pensively, “You need to lie down. You need rest.”

“How can expect me to rest when my career, that hasn’t even started, is in jeopardy here, mother?” I ask her, slowly losing the bit of patience I had mustered. “I have to play tennis this season, no matter what. I cannot ‘not play’ for a whole goddamn year due to a stupid fracture.” I tell them in a tone of finality.

Dr. Anderson looks unfazed by whatever I say. She stares at me and I stare right back at her.

After a few seconds she takes my mother outside the room, where they talk in hushed voices and trust me when I say that it is the most maddening thing I have ever experienced in my whole life, I can neither hear them properly nor can I pretend that they aren’t talking about me.

My body is shaking with frustration. All the training I had been doing since the last six years, all gone in the drain. I am torn between accepting my fate and fighting for a battle I know I will eventually lose. I feel everything in my life slipping through my fingers like grains of sand and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.

Tennis: my favorite escape. I remember the happiness I felt when my father gifted me my first racquet. I can’t bear to lose the feeling of adrenaline pumping through my body when I train; the thumping of my heart just before a match. I just can’t.

I stare into the nothingness of the wall, my mind jumping from one thought to another. I slowly feel my mood growing darker and darker with each passing second, something I should have become used to experiencing now considering how much it has happened to me, but that hollowness never fails to shake me to my core. I never knew I could feel emotions to such extent. But I surprise myself every time something shitty happens in my life. I start questioning everything in my life.

I curse myself for standing in the middle of the road. I curse the person who hit me. I curse my father. I curse everything that is making me lose my mind. Lastly, I curse myself for feeling the way I feel.