Ping

I hate that sound

I hate how weak it feels. I want it to be a deep dark sound, every time.

Instead, this is what I get.

*Ping*

Follow through...fight harder for it

*Ping*

Place it a little more right

*Ping*

Just leg it out

*Ping*

Just a little more

I really want a stronger hit. I want more than driving it up the third base line. I want variety. Everyone already knows I can beat a short line drive to third. I need to be able to shock them. Even if it's only making the infield scramble...that will be good enough. I'm one of the fastest on our team, I just need to make better hits. Do you hear the want in every ping? The frustration? I'm tired of running out short plays. I want them to work for it. I want the outfield to know that I'm beating them.

It's never really over

Day 3 assignment:

I'm always falling out the door now. As if I can close it so fast no evil will get by me. Heat rages against my skin every time. A flustered and idiotic fool. I feel useless as I stand still and lock the deadbolt.

Sometimes, I get it. I can never run away.

I'm already a coward. I left them all. I know that I saved them, that I made a light at the end of a caved-in tunnel...but. But I'm not there now. I can't hold their hands as they walk into the light. I'm gone, and waiting for the vengeance I know will find me like the rain.

And just like that, the water falls from the sky. Maybe it's a sign. I have to pay for setting them free.

This time, I can turn from the door. I'm not scared. I know they're out there. I always knew they would find me. I take each step down slowly. They can wait at the bottom, I'm in no hurry.

As I turn to the landing I can see them. Fools. Amateurs. I gave up everything to save the ones I left behind. Never send an amateur to do a professional's work. I let the smile creep up the side of my face as I lift the knife from the holster at my hip.

Not today.