The Writers' Circle

Darla

I'm lying by my swimming pool, sipping a divine tasting cocktail, looking out over the Pacific Ocean, my luxury Californian Villa behind me, Ferrari on the drive, sun beaming down on me, topping up the near perfect tan on my body that so many magazines pay top dollar to photograph and I'd just had my third orgasm of the morning. I'm utterly unhappy. Once you commit yourself wholeheartedly to one dream, then living that dream becomes the only thing that can make you happy.
 I can't help looking down at my legs, those limbs that are lusted after by so many, I can't look at them without feeling a little sick. Despite all the cosmetic treatment money can buy, you can still just about make out the scar. Cicatrice sounds a much more pleasant word than scar. Whatever I called this one, I'd still feel nauseous. Impossible for me to look at my left knee without clearly recalling the moment of its snap and the shattering of my dreams. 
Early this morning I had made myself get up to watch it. I couldn't not watch it, but I knew watching it would be tough. Like seeing a pile up of cars, you don't want to see the mangled bodies, but you find it so hard to divert your gaze. I turned my television on and watched it alone. The ladies French Open tennis final would forever send a shiver down my spine. Played out on the Roland Garros centre court, that was the scene of my greatest agony, when so close to my greatest triumph. Knee ligaments snapping caused indescribable physical pain, yet that was nothing compared to the emotional trauma. A set up and three points on my own serve for a five games to two lead in the second set. Undoubtedly it was the best performance of my short career, had it been a boxing match it would have been stopped to save my opponent from more punishment. Instead all the punishment was heaped on me, lying on the red clay, screaming and crying from the pain and distress. My opponent that day was Lauren Fisher, she had just become world number one and was the ultimate American sweet heart, girl next door and poster girl. Lauren rushed round to me as soon as I hit the floor, took one look at my knee and frantically waved on the medical staff. She was one of my first visitors in hospital, bringing the trophy with her and letting me hold it. She's undoubtedly a sweetie and I can't imagine anybody handling the situation better, she still checks on my progress even now, two years on. During those two years she'd gone on to establish herself in the number one spot. 
As if to aid my already complete memory of that sickening day, Lauren was in this year's final. What's more she was playing a Belgian, Holly was my country woman and was the defending French Open Champion. Fate was none to subtle, showing me a Belgian player becoming the best player on red clay, a surface that was always my favourite. Lauren was determined to win a French Open without a forfeit, Holly was equally determined to defend her crown. Something had to give. Lauren was the better tennis player, but Holly had quickly made herself into a clay court master. In three long sets Holly eventually found a way to win. 
At times the match was so good I was able to get absorbed in it, the way normal tennis fans would have been. Never for more than a few minutes at a time though, then the 'should be me' thoughts would hit me like a sledgehammer. I'd had a year of no tennis at all, which resulted in me losing myself in a crazy hedonistic and damaging lifestyle. Since being dragged out of that by my two closest friends, I've had a year of rehabilitation. Not an addictive celebrity type of rehab, but the retraining and strengthening of my knee. Two things had become clear during that year, one was that I'd be able to try playing tennis again, the other being that I would never be quite the same player. That's either a delightful blessing, or an incredible cruel piece of taunting me with the shadows of my dream.
After the tennis was finished I was left in my lonely world, wondering how to occupy my time. As is increasingly often lately, I end up on the internet chatting to strangers. I never go on there as 'myself', always playing a role of some character in my head. In cyber world even the disappointments and heartbreaks aren't real.