Determination

I recently read Kurt Vonnegut's 8 Rules for Writing and was incredibly inspired by his points. My favorite rule was this: "Be a sadist. Now matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them — in order that the reader may see what they are made of." I loved it. I wanted to apply it to everything I've ever written. Anyway, here's my attempt at hurting a character. It's actually based on a true story, so I suppose it says something about me.

"God, I hate this," I yelled down to Evan, who was over 20 feet below me. "I really, really hate this," I continued, incredibly frustrated with myself, my line holder, my contraption, my arms - pretty much everything.

"Lauren, you can do it. Try again," Evan yelled up humbly. It wasn't his fault, of course, but I still hated him. Mostly because he was right every time he told me I was doing the trick wrong.

I exhaled air from my mouth hard, causing my bangs to fly up. With my sweaty wrist, I pushed them back and tightened my ponytail. Determined to do it right, I gave him a nod and started pumping my swing again.

There were two months until circus homeshows. I had every trick down and ready to be performed except for this one. I sat up high on a U-shaped rope suspended in mid-air. Evan was below me, next to the safety net, holding the safety lines attached to my waist in case I fell wrong. I wasn't allowed to take them off until the trick was perfect.

Sitting on the rope, the Mexican Cloud Swing, I closed my eyes and imagined that I was in my backyard back at home, sitting on our swing set. It was a warm spring morning. The trees arched over me and a cool breeze blew across my face. I opened my eyes only to see the intimidating red and white stripes on the top of the circus tent. Okay. It was time.

I started swinging on the rope as if it was a simple playground swing. Then, I propped my right foot up on it and pushed down. Standing on the one foot, I balanced myself so my other foot fit on the rope comfortably as well. I bent my knees at the back of my swing and then straightened my legs hard in the middle. It made the swing go higher and higher. Looking straight ahead, I yelled down "Next time here," when I hit the peak of the front of my swing. At the back of the swing I yelled down, "This time."

I should have waited until the swing got to its peak. I should have jumped then, simply jumped off the rope, letting my arms, which were held out straight next to me, catch me mid-air. I should have held the pose and then got back up, only to try it again.

But I didn't. I jumped before peak like I always did. I always jumped the gun. And I always hurt myself in the process.

"Dammit," I yelled and I knew Evan felt bad for me. Every time I jumped early, even with him holding the safety lines, I still hit hard. If the trick was performed properly, it wouldn't hurt when my arms caught. But since I went early, my arms hit the rope hard, forcefully, giving me a fierce rope burn every time.

But I got back up and tried again because I had to. My arms hurt, bad. Rough scratches and flakes covered my once smooth skin. They were starting to turn red, purple, blue.

Without stopping, I pumped my swing high enough and tried again. And again I went too early. The next time as well. The rough skin started to peel and droplets of red blood stuck to the cloud swing. That wasn't a rare occurrence, though - the cloud swing had years of dried blood on it. We didn't have the cleanest circus.

I sat on the cloud swing again, defeated. My arms were throbbing - I had tried the trick 15 times that afternoon and I wasn't getting better. I had 10 minutes left of practice and was ready to give up until Evan told me not to.

"I have an idea," he said. "This time go when I tell you to."

"You've never done the act, Evan," I said, sourly.

"So? I know peak. Get up. Go."

I didn't want to. I wanted to get down, go home, and snuggle on the cough, away from the circus. I hated him for telling me what to do, but I hated myself more for failing. So, obediently, I sat down and started swinging.

"Okay next time...there." Even called out when I wasn't even close to peak.

"Are you kidding? That's too early!" I shouted out, protesting. If I went THAT early, I'd really be hurt. My heart thundered in my chest.

"This time," he continued, ignoring my protest. "HUP!"

On hup, I went as I was instructed to do. I was right - it WAS too early. My arms caught hard and I yelled in pain and frustration.

"EVAN I'M GOING TO KILL YOU."

He wasn't phased by my reaction. Instead, he said, "OK, one more time."

"No. No way. I refuse," I shouted down, noticing the red marks on the net. My blood reached epic proportion. I was tired and my hair was sticking to my sweaty forehead.

"Lauren. Listen. One more time."

I don't know why I did it, but I got back up. I followed his direction. He was one of the circus elders - he knew what he was doing, even though I severely doubted it.

"Okay next time....there." This time, rather than being incredibly early, he was calling for me to jump off ridiculously late.

"Evan. No. That's late."

Again, he ignored me and again, for some reason, I followed his call. I trusted him. It was an inherent trust I had to have. He was holding my safety lines after all.

"This time...HUP!" I went. As predicted it was too late and I hit the rope with a thud. I bit my lips to push back the tears. As my swing slowed down, I got back up and sat on the rope. I was worn out, like an old rag that should have been tossed months ago.

"Okay, what happened?" Evan asked.

"You tried to kill me," I answered, not wanting to look at him.

"Well, no, I tried to help. The first time you went too early, right?"

"Yeah."

"And the second time too late?"

"Yeah."

"Did you feel each time? Feel when they were too early and too late?"

"Of course." I felt like a stubborn child.

"Okay. Go inbetween those times."

"Huh?"

"Go inbetween. Find the middle time."

All of a sudden it made sense. He showed me the two extremes so I knew what NOT to do, not what TO do. Wanting to test his theory I got up, one last time. My legs were shaking. I had been up there for almost an hour.

I pushed down on my swing. I felt weak, out of breath. Cramps were forming in my stomach and I wanted to chop my raw arms off. But something else took over - something that wasn't me. I wasn't in the tent anymore, I was all on my own. Just me. Swinging. No pressure.

"Next time," I yelled down, calling it at around the right spot. "This time."

And then, with my eyes closed as I was warned many times not to do, I jumped.

I landed lightly on my arms. They still burned and they still got scratched, but I didn't die. As I opened my eyes, I saw Evan looking up at me smiling. His plan worked.

I got out of the early mindset and found a middle ground. I did the trick correctly. Realizing what happened, I let out a laugh, loud and uninhibited. I did it.

Back on the ground, Evan gave me a hug for all the work and gauze for my wounds. I looked at my arms to find them mangled, thrashed up from all the work. I could barely touch them, or anything. I needed my roommate to help me change my shirt for the next few days.

The next day, arms bandaged up, I went back up on the cloud swing. I didn't find it intimidating or scary. On the contrary, I found it home. My home, where anything was possible.