A Change in the Water

Michaila Matthews 26'

A shrill whistle snapped Ashtyn out of his trance. The illuminated phone rested on his side table. A name displayed bright on the screen— familiar, unavoidable. His eyes lingered for an unknown amount of time. It was almost impossible to drag them away. Ashtyn hesitated and his head grew heavy. Bile in his gut threatened to rise. He let out a sharp groan. Then, he forced himself to press the green button.

“Hi, sweetie, how’re you doing?” She uttered in a brittle, thin tone. “How’s your team doing… your classes?”

“Hey, Mom..” He responded dully, trailing off. The right phrases were difficult to find. “Everything’s been fine–” 

She mumbled weakly, “I heard about your upcoming meet… why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice barely audible through the line but sharper. “I think this is amazing— actually it’s wonderful for you, honey! You’re flying down, right?”

“I’ll pick you up.” His mind raced as she spoke, queasiness, worry, and regret. “I’ve purchased our flight tickets. You, your sister, and I can all go together.” 

“I might not go… I’m not feeling—”

“I’ve already started planning…” Her voice was fickle, cutting through his protests. The harshness in her tone and volume increased. “Ashtyn… you’re going! No, you won’t miss this opportunity.” She stated, unwavering. “You’re fine!” She insisted. “You’ve been preparing, right? You’re— you need to be ready for this! It’s m— you said this was your dream.” The air was heavy with elicited silence. He shifted in his seat. A slight dip formed at the polyester’s edge. Ashtyn tensed with each movement. The lack of light and quiet seemed to restrict his oxygen.

“You wouldn’t disappoint me…” Her speech stern and elevated. “You wouldn’t do that to me, right?” 

She was silent again as she composed herself. A thin voice returned, “I knew you’d come around~ I’ll text you soon.” She didn’t wait for a response or an ounce of confirmation. 

“Bye sweetheart~” She hung up. The beep rang three times. The room was still as he stared at the device. Once again, Ashtyn was alone in his apartment, the neutral hues uninviting. His frame and limbs ached. He carefully returned the cell phone into a side pocket and retreated from the living room. 

He roamed past the kitchen mess, the hums of the refrigerator, and a blur of his navy sports bag by a door. His apartment was cold. There was an emptiness about this place. Perhaps it was the absence of light and warmth from the uncurtained windows. Or that even the smallest traces of life were sparsely placed. There was nothing to fill the vacancy. It merely added to the misery. He grew closer to his room. People came and went during the day and his neighbors’ occasional shouts were perceptible. The walls were essentially barren, save for a few cheap art pieces upon the walls. The splash of color brought some life back to this place. It reminded him of a close friend and his own childhood. 

He rested on the edge of his bed. Legs dangled from his mattress, inches from the matted old carpet. The side dresser sported a small lamp, while the corner desk held textbooks and partially wrinkled papers. His chest tightened. His right leg swayed back and forth, mindlessly. Clinks rang. His eyes fluttered down, squinting. A box. He reached for it and winced at the stretch. He remembered the box immediately. Swim medals, a cheap old sketchbook, photographs, tiny trinkets, a cherished letter from his little sister, and anything and everything from his youth were all crammed within. The sketchbook had faded with time and the corners peeled back. The edges of the gold and silver medals were worn, both smooth and rough. He held a gold one in particular. Clenching it tightly. 

Everything flooded back. Throughout his early and teenage years, he’d spend hours swimming. Twice every day. Whenever he could get away from the work and school that plagued him, he’d practice. Regardless of whether the season was months away or had already ended. The water was like a detachment from reality. His vision clear from the goggles he wore. On those days without a swim cap, hair flowed behind his brow. He would cut through the water. Powerful glides. The weightlessness. A relaxed mind. Even the workouts and sets were freedom to him. The natural athleticism he’d built had inevitably given him broader shoulders. He’d radiate energy. Eyes bright with endless shine. There was an affinity to the pool, to the sport.

Initially, it was the life-saving skill that drew him in. Yet with time, he’d swim simply to get away from his parents. Their screams, their antics, everything. But, with time, the pressure became a burden. Teammates would cheer for his accomplishments yet notice his downcast expressions— his lack of enthusiasm. By junior year, his mother insisted he kept swimming: ‘It wouldn’t be too tough to get on a college team,’ ‘I’ve already spent too much for you to quit now,’ or ‘He’s one of the top finishers,’ she’d brag. Ashtyn knew this. He was good. But those achievements, along with the need to succeed, to push himself to be the fastest, to compete in more events, and to please his mother, had left him ignorant. Especially to his own well-being. That escape fueled the disconnect. His medals were neglected. Life got a bit too real. He needed a change. He loved the water, yet it seemed to swallow him whole.

The grasp left indents on his palm. The box snapped shut, he bent down, shoved it farther under the low bed, and walked away. He approached his bathroom, turning on the silver faucet. Hands flung the lukewarm liquid at his face, soaking his skin. Water drops fell and drained down the sink. Ashtyn glanced at the large mirror filling the room and pushed the shaggy layers of brown hair behind his face. He was failing everyone, especially his team.

“I should be able to handle this,” he grumbled. Clearing the burning throat that hurt like hell.

Sharp waves continued to run down his shoulder. He hoped not to put any more strain on his inflamed joints. At least that’s what the doctor would have wanted. He’d heard the devastating results not too long ago. The jumbles of medical terms made him numb with regret. The treatment said to avoid the use of his left shoulder. All there was was a sinking feeling. His negligence. He tapped his foot frantically during that call. Essentially, it was a severe case of swimmer’s shoulder despite proper technique. Near enough to create permanent damage. Everything else was a blur: something about a ‘letter with written results’, and if he wanted ‘additional information, please contact.’

  He retrieved a dwindling bottle of pain relief returning to his reflection. Every time he attempted to lift that arm, he felt pain. What should he do? What could he do? Especially in this situation. He didn’t have time to relax and recover; he had to compete. He bit back the impulse to pick at the flesh on his fingertips. He refused to hear his mother’s opinions on the matter. To hear her berate him for messing up so badly. Then again, he’d received her blows before. The competition could be serious for him. To advance his swimming career. He should simply go, satisfy his mother, and bring home something worthwhile to showcase. That’s what she wanted. But if he goes, he may never swim again. Everything might become worse for him. What if he underperforms due to the strain? Even worse, losing his position on his team? Would she ever forgive her son? He sighed. She was right: this was meant to be his dream. But either way, he was failing someone. It was his own fault. Ignoring subtle signs of his deteriorating physical health.

  Just as the thought of icing his shoulder dawned. A buzzing interrupted him. Ashtyn cautiously took the phone from his pocket and gazed at the locked home screen. A text message. He immediately swiped up, and before he could fully consider what to do or say, he pressed the call button. Leaving the phone to ring in anticipation for the answerer to pick up.

“Ash, that was fast… you actually responded quickly, for once!” Flynn’s voice was light. “You good?”

He halted for a moment, “Yeah… I’m alright.” Ashtyn lied. The weird knot in his throat refused to go away. 

“You sure?” He pressed. A small ‘hum’ came from within and he continued, “Did you see my newest piece? It’s kind of a mess— but, I’d say a good mess. Threw some paint at the canvas.”

“I saw it, it’s good— it’s great. You’re talented. You should really do one for me— smaller though.” 

Flynn took a moment to truly think, “I’ll consider it.” He paused once more. “That reminds me. How are you holding up since… y’know everything? Be honest.”

“It’s okay. Just— okay.”

“Ash.”

“I can’t screw this up. You know how she is. She’d lose it if I didn't participate—” Even Ashtyn’s own words made him question if swimming truly was his passion.

“What about you… what do you want?” 

“I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter what I want. Swimming is all I have.” Ashtyn bit back unpleasantly.

“No, it’s not. And you’re not a screw-up. You just need some time. Time to rest.” Flynn added. “Sometimes you’re too hard on yourself. Swimming and competitions don’t always have to be your whole focus.” Those words made Ashtyn really reconsider. A balanced approach or simply exploring a ‘New Path’ would be helpful. With little concern that he would worsen his injury. Flynn resumed, “I’ve seen the way you look at my work, and at art in general. You’ve got an eye for that kind of thing.”

“Art? That’s your thing… not mine.” He rebutted. However, the back of his mind told him that perhaps he needed to let go. That his mother could wait. The idea of art chased his conscience. It felt foreign and nearly insane. She had always encouraged athletic interests. Not artistic.

“I just— look,” Another pause. “Take a break and try something new, away from sports for once. I could come pick you up— hang at my studio. Throw some paint. Or really anything, you don’t have to commit— just try it.”

For once, Ashtyn wanted to. He felt an ounce— perhaps even a rush of relief. If it might be daunting and unfamiliar. But he’d be doing something for himself, really, for himself.

“Okay, give me ten.” He declared. A small weight lifted. “I’ll give it a shot…” Maybe this was exactly what he needed.