Page 33 of Under the Waves

“Hey, rein it in would you? Honestly, you’re worse than Jakson.”

I followed the voices round the side of the building. My fingers pushed open a small, wooden gate and walked through what seemed to be a back yard. A small white wooden fence outlined the area, paint worn and well-loved. Pebbles of all shapes lined the walkway up to the white decking with evergreen grass blooming all around.

A gray climbing frame lay in the center, with a small pair of swings and a sandpit to the left of it, and a fairly big sized inflatable pool to the right of it.Whoa. This place was a child’s dream—theyhadeverything.

My throat tightened as I looked around, my feet moving on their own accord as I was too awe-stricken to move myself. I swallowed, the sound audible. I would’ve loved this when I was little. The small pool to help kids get used to the water where they could take it one step at a time. The daunting size of the ocean engulfs their tiny frames, so it was a genius idea to provide them somewhere safe and small to get used to being in the water. My fingers dropped down and ran along the edge of the pool sides.

I continued walking over to the climbing frame which resembled a dome shape with gray colored bars crossing over each other in a honeycomb pattern. A small smile tugged at my lips. Oliver would’ve loved this. My little monkey—he was always climbing up the furniture and crawling between the tightest of spaces.

Stepping around the frame, my gaze fell down on the small swing set—a singular wooden swing hung in the middle from a wooden frame above, held up by two gray strings. The more I looked at it, the more my heartbeat slowed and my mind calmed. All I saw when I glanced at it was everything that I had missed out on—all the memories of childhood that were never an option for me.

Give me back my girlhood, it was mine first.

Those lyrics by Taylor Swift echoed in my ears. Itwasmine first, it should’vealwaysbeen mine. But itwasn’t. It was stolen, ripped from my body and replaced with hours of training, set meals, and waves after waves—the cycle that never ended. Weighing scales and low carbs diets and training regimens that should never have been given to a six-year-old girl. Scolding for wanting to spend time with my friends, chastised for eating something as simple as a cupcake or piece of toast because those carbs would make sure I would never reach the Pros.

My entire childhood was a diary of a girl who lost her girlhood.

So what was I made for?

To reach the Pros and then what?

To be forced to think about his hand on my cheek, the burning sensation that followed as I squeezed my eyes closed so tightly to keep the tears from falling, each time I looked at a stupid birthday cake?

To be able to see the bones through my skin because no six-year-old girl should ever be under eating whilst being trained to the absolute exhaustion?

But it was okay though,right?

Because I won nearly every competition I took part in. People cheered for me and loved me—no, they loved that they had someone as good as me representing them.

They loved theideaof me but they didn’t loveme.

My dad loved the person who he could mold me into, he loved the girl I could become instead of the girl I was. That was all I was to him. A ticket to freedom—someone he only kept around so he could gain something, and once he realized he couldn’t get that, he left.

Simple as that.

And my mom?

She just didn’t love me at all because loving her only daughter was something she was incapable of. I was a burden to her because I wasme.

A disappointment to her becauseIwas the reason my dad hated her so much.

A murderer to her becauseIwas the reason my little brother wasdead.

I was everything to my dad in all the wrong ways and I was nothing at all to my mom. It was a constant battle and it felt I was stuck inside a washing machine being spun around and around and around.

I was never enough for him and always too much for her.

There was no balance between them—I was walking on a fine line, a tightrope made of glass so that every misstep was reflected at me a million different times. I couldn’t escape my mistakes, something I should’ve easily been able to brush off and never think about again, but I justcouldn’t—that wasn’t how my brain worked.

I wished I would’ve stood up to him, I wished I would’ve told him how much I was hurting trying to keep up with the image he had for me.

But if I said anything, I was ungrateful.

If I complained, I was spoilt.

There was nothing I could do but learn to take his words and not let them get me down.

All it took was a slap or two when I was barely a child to know that crying wasn’t allowed under that roof. All it took was one forceful push against the counter when I was eight to know that there was no other future for me except the one he planned. I wished he was dead each time I fell asleep and felt so guilty for thinking those thoughts it made me physically sick.