Swimming Story
Matthew Ryan Fischer
Herman hadn’t been in a swimming pool for over six months. Prior
to that he couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t swum on a regular basis.
It wasn’t a daily habit, but it very nearly was. Herman had taken two shots to
the chest, and even though he was wearing a bullet proof vest, the force had
cracked some ribs and knocked him back and off his balance. He had lost his
grip on the fire escape and fallen. For a moment the fall felt like it was to
his demise, but then the hood of his patrol car broke his fall. He ended up
with several breaks in either leg, a dislocated shoulder, three broken ribs and
a slew of bloody bruises. Many people considered him lucky. It could have been
worse. Of course he knew that. But knowing that didn’t change anything. It was
still his broken body. It was still his recovery time. It was still his
physical therapy. And they were still his scars. Yes, he was lucky. Yes, he was
alive. But so were the scars.
Herman sat on the water’s edge and got lost in the blue. The room
was humid and stunk of chlorine. It brought back fond memories. Herman had
always felt free in the water, free in a way that he had never experienced anywhere
else. He thought he was a creature of the sea. The water just felt right.
Somewhere in his DNA was the memory of a world ocean, full of evolutionary
ancestry. The beast inside him stirred and he wanted to throw himself into the
pool. Instead he sat in his chair.
The casts had come off. He didn’t need the chair. But he was still
slow and he still ached and he hated to show a weakness to the world. Somehow
the chair was better than a cane. Someone had recommended the humidity of the
indoor pool to help ease his aching bones. They hadn’t known his history with
the water. They were just thinking of his physical pain. They had no idea what
mental anguish it was to sit so close to the water and yet be so far away.
When he was in school he had won tournaments. His body was
pristine. And oh how the women loved him.
That was a long time ago.
His body was long and slender and his muscles were lean. He had
added a few pounds over the last few years, but that wasn’t anything
significant. The competitor inside him assured him he was still as capable as
most men half his age.
But that was before.
He could remember a time when he was never out of breath. Now it
hurt when he had to put on socks and shoes.
Herman was afraid.
He didn’t recognize himself anymore. He didn’t understand what he
had become. He used to be fearless. Now he hurt all the time. The change
terrified him. Thinking it might not ever be the same terrified him even more. He
didn’t want to get in the water. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t know what he
would do if it were true – if things really were never going to be the same
again. He didn’t like to think about problems that didn’t have solutions. Life
was unfair that way; most of the real problems never had solutions. He had
never had to think like that before. Problems used to seem so easy.
He sat and watched the tranquil water. The casts had come off.
Everyone encouraged him to get in the water. It was time, they all said. It
would help with the healing. Not today it wouldn’t. No, not today. Today was for
sitting and thinking. Herman stared into the water and saw the transition of
his soul reflected back.
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