My fingers are torn and bleeding, no longer smooth as they were before the nerves. I’m sitting here, breathing heavily, the soft sheets under me pulling me down. My eyelids are drooping and I’m sinking into sleep again. There’s a sharp rap at the door that stings me like a bucket of icy water. My coach is standing stone still in the door frame, waiting. For once, I hate her with her tight bike shorts and cold green eyes, locking me in her gaze. I want to knock her skinny figure down and run away. I want to forget the world and die. Then she says the words I’ve been waiting for - ‘Get ready.’ I don’t want to, but my arms slide my t-shirt over my head, push me up from my hotel bed. She is walking, stiff but fast, towards me. Suddenly she wraps her snakelike arms around my hair, pulls it hard and fastens it securely on top off my head. ‘In the car, I’ve packed your stuff.’ She points. I feel like a dog being cursed like its owner, tail down, skulking off down the corridor. When I get to the car, I slam my door really hard so it can soak up a few emotions. My fingers fumble with the shoelaces of my trainers. The drive seems stretched out, long and sickly. We are early at the stadium, and the lights burn my ears bright pink. My face is hot and I need to throw up, but I force it down again. I know I can win this, so when my feet finally hit the racetrack they power forward like the hounds of hell are behind me. I can feel the pain in my side, chewing through me without teeth. In the final few metres my shoelace slithers undone, and I trip over finish line, slamming my hollow stomach down on first. Over.
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