72 Angst Prompts || Accepting
63. “I’m trying to fix you!”
“Again. Come on, kiddo, up and at ‘em.”
Rowan winced and rolled onto his back. He looked down at himself and grimaced. The whole front of his shirt was covered in dirt and grass stains. His whole body ached – he’d lost count of the times he’d failed to catch the baseball and managed to get hit with the stupid thing instead. Sports, it seemed, were just another thing he could add to his ever-growing list of failures. Venkman had brought him out to the park every day for a month to try something new. Frisbee, soccer, basketball, football, field hockey… and the latest disaster – baseball. And every attempt went more abysmally wrong than the last. Even Venkman, who normally couldn’t be bothered to be phased by anything, was starting to get frustrated.
“Rowan. Come on… get up, and throw the ball.”
“No.” The fourteen year old stared up at the darkening sky. The sooner the sun set, the sooner they could go home. “Get it yourself. I’m done.”
He heard Venkman sigh, and Rowan shut his eyes tight, trying to crush the awful swell of embarrassment and guilt welling up in his stomach. His face was red with exertion, and his breathing was coming in short shallow gasps. Everything was covered in sweat. It was disgusting. Why was he so goddamn overweight? It wasn’t like he didn’t dry, and the kids at his school certainly gave him some very good incentive to run home every day after school. Overweight… unattractive… generally untalented… Somebody upstairs REALLY had it in for him.
“You’re not going to get any better if you lay down and give up,” he heard Venkman say. He was trying to be inspirational. But right now, all Rowan wanted was to bury himself in the dirt, and not have to crawl out again until high school was over. Every day that ticked by brought him closer to what he knew was about to be the four most hellish years of his life, and the rapidly approaching end of the summer vacation was sending his anxiety into overdrive.
“I’m not going to get good at it ever, so why are you trying to make me waste my time?” Rowan snapped back.
“Yeah, THAT’S the spirit!”
“Well I’m not!” Rowan sat up, turning his face to his father. “And it’s not like knowing how to do any of this stupid stuff is going to make a difference.”
“No?” Venkman pulled off his mitt, staring back at the boy. “I can think of a few ways it might help you. You do realize one of the quickest ways to build a friendship is joining a sports team, right? Or a club? Similar interests are important.”
Rowan scoffed. “Yeah, because I was ACTUALLY going to make a sports team, and THAT’S what was going to get people to suddenly like me.”
“You know, I’m starting to think you enjoy being hated.”
Peter crossed his arms, and stared at Rowan, searching his face intently, his expression grim. “Well, do you?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. Rowan didn’t know what to say. He just stared at Venkman, his chest throbbing. He felt… very aware of the sweat on his palms… the size of his stomach under his t-shirt… the dirt and grass stains on his clothes…
“You don’t try! You actively don’t try. You gave up, and frankly, it’s bullshit! You’re a brilliant kid, you could be a great friend to somebody, but you decided back in the fourth grade that the whole world was against you, so why bother being anything but miserable, right?”
“Well what else am I supposed to do?!” Rowan’s voice pitched up by his anger, and he balled his hands into fists. “What exactly do you suggest? Huh? Dress like the other kids? Maybe THAT will get them to stop hitting me! Drop 70 or 80 IQ points, and use a little more upspeak? How about I lose 100 pounds and get some plastic surgery while I’m at it? Make myself marginally less hideous. Get myself a lobotomy and hey, why don’t I just re-wire my entire personality into something everybody can find just a little more palatable!! How about I just change everything about myself, so I’m just not me at all!”
“Rowan, I’m not telling you to change who you are! I’m trying to fix you!”
Venkman stopped, wincing visibly in the silence. Rowan just stared at him. He tasted ash in the back of his mouth… His ears were ringing. His chest ached.
“I… I’m trying to help you. I-… There’s nothing to-… You’re not… You’re not broken. You don’t need-… I-… Rowan-”
The boy threw down his mitt, and ran. He could hear Peter calling after him, but right then, he didn’t care.
‘I’m trying to fix you. I’m trying to fix you. I’m trying to fix you.’
The words pounded in his head, over and over and over again with every step. He wasn’t sure where he was going. Away, that was the most important. Just away. He tried to tell himself that Peter hadn’t meant it… That it wasn’t true, and it didn’t matter… That there was nothing wrong with him, nothing broken. Just a late bloomer… Just a little slow… That someone, eventually, would pick him from the bunch, would take him as he was, no questions asked. That he was perfectly fine just the way he was.
But it wasn’t true. And he knew it.