Storytime: In the Attic (Part 4)

The following will be a multi-part series from a book of short stories I wrote a long time ago. I shall record these stories exactly as they are written with no editing.

Many of the stories are of true events with some embellishments and sometimes a small amount of creative license. All names will be changed to protect the privacy of the individuals mentioned.

Without further ado, let's adventure into my 16-year-old self via our book pensieve. Here is In the Attic.

The Consequences of Play

Crack! I watched the one of my teammates utterly smash the softball high into the air. It soared into the pallid sky, seemingly disappearing, and came rocketing down towards the field. "I got it!" one of the girls called. She ran towards the ball, her arms rose into the air and swayed like a flimsy bough; her splayed fingers supporting the mitt as if it were an enormous leaf. I stared in anticipation, forgetting my own momentary purpose, then looked away with a sigh as the girl shied away from the white, leather sphere. The coach muttered a "nice try" while he picked up another.

Crack! Another girl hit a foul and I flinched as it hit the fence next to me. Turning back to my task, I feigned a pitch one yard away from a friend. My hand was empty, so the action felt exceedingly awkward, but I grinned as I pretended my companion got a strike. My arm went up, letting the phantom soft ball slip from my fingertips; whoosh went the bat as she swung. Again and again I repeated the motion. My arm drew back slowly. Then I released the muscles holding the limb behind me, let it swing forward, and outstretched my hand. The momentum carried the arm to complete the follow-through.

As my hand flew back again, an idea squirmed its way into my silly head. "Let's use a real softball!" I thought aloud. The wielder of the bat, being as air headed as a hot air balloon, nodded in agreement. I smiled at the comfortable feeling of the cool leather and slight weight in my small hands. Again I feigned several pitches; each time I could feel the sphere struggling to break loose from my prying fingers. Suddenly, in a moment of absentmindedness, it burst forth in glory and freedom, silently screaming in joy as its body careened toward the metal bat! I blinked. In that split second the only thing I heard was a loud metallic thud. During the following moments I felt an unbearable throbbing in my skull as blazingly warm tears poured down my cheeks in tiny rivulets. I howled in pain as an egg-shaped knot began to form. Deep inside my mind someone began a lecture on stupidity. Rushing over to me, my mother did just what every mother will instinctively do, in most circumstances: she cradled my head, which only multiplied the slow, penetrating pain. I dimly heard the batter sobbing apologies that I do not recall. As I opened my swollen eyelids, heavy from so many tears, I noticed the entire team had assembled to watch the exposition of stupidity. Or so it seemed to me. After a few moments, and after every adult assessed my skull, I was declared "fine." However, nothing was, of course, anywhere near "fine."

That hideous knot lasted for an entire week, during which I was interrogated to no end. My lesson to mull over: never play with real softballs.

---

I am very lucky I didn't get a concussion that day. Unironically, I smashed a ceramic pumpkin on my head that same year not a few months after softball season ended. That one was an accident, but it hit the exact same spot. You know, my family always did call me "hard headed".

I thank you for your time. Adiamas.

​--Kyriel