INDEBTED TO A SAVIOUR (part 1)

SO.

the following is contains fiction (like duhh) and is partially the truth.

and if you take hints well, usually the truth is not as good as it seems.

[I submitted it for some competition along with a whole gang of cool people who think writing is fun, plus they read it, so you better keep your hands off my work. HAH.]

:)

Sweat seeped through the black attire covering my body.

My lethargic body sank to the floor out of sheer exhaustion, my right hand still
clutching my red satin ribbon. As I inhaled sharply, all I smelt was the stench that was slowly enveloping me - the stink of sweat. I could see the imprint of sweat which was slowly soaking the black cotton on my body. Urgh. Gross.

“Bea! Get your backside of the carpet! Your throws – all of them are not accurate enough! They don’t fall where their supposed to!”

“Tired lah, teacher..”

“What is this? ‘Tired’? What is tired? As long as your keep throwing as disastrously as just now, you won’t even be able to qualify for the Nationals like you did the last time! You cannot throw your ribbon where it ought to go, then how the heck are you going to finish your routine on time with the music?!”

“And.. I am NOT a teacher!”

Colour flooded my cheeks as I cringed in embarressment. It was one thing to get yelled at, it was a different thing altogether to get yelled at in front of curious onlookers and younger gymnasts. I sighed and mumbled a dreary ‘Yes, coach’ in reply. I am a not a teacher! , she says. I am a coach!!

Hey there. You have just had the privilege of witnessing my rhythmic gymnastics teacher- I mean, coach, howl at me like a shrieking banshee. She is not always like that, my coach, it is just that today is simply not one of her better days. Total that up with a terrible performance on my part, and you will have a very, very grumpy coach.

“Love the sport.
Breathe the sport. When you dance, dance all your love out. Show your love to
the world!”

Every time the thought of giving up enters my head, I cast it
away, with my coach’s voice ringing in my mind.

I took up this sport in Primary 6. After watching the elegance and beauty of the rhythmic gymnasts during the 2004 Athens Olympics, I was hooked. I was intrigued by their poise and agility. The utter charm, grace and cool that each of them seemed to possess and never failed to demonstrate each time they appeared on the screen. So off I went to begin classes. I was not bad, actually, considering that 12 is a rather late age to start rhythmic gymnastics. In fact, I was one of the best in class. Back then, I was under a different coach, one who did not favour gymnasts who were on the fat side (i.e. me), so I had to train on my own at home in order to be up to par with the rest.

*****

fLASHBACK

I took my place on the carpet, my shiny pink ball in between my ankles. I stood straight, took a deep breath, and arched my back, causing the neat bun on my head to gently touch my butt. My hands were placed above my body, resembling doves searching for freedom. I was ready.