The Last Night At The Pool Dialectical Journal

His arms propelled his skeletal form, pushing feebly against the resistance of the tepid water. Gasping, he clutched onto the edge of the pool as he completed his timed freestyle lap. Obscuring his gaze were the black dots of fatigue, only allowing him a clouded view of his coach’s face; enough to reveal his displeasure. “17 seconds. Slower than last week and definitely not good enough.” The coach marched out of the pool complex, abandoning him to contemplate those words that echoed off the walls of the deserted building. His hands trembled and his eyes glistened as he hauled his gaunt body from the pool. His mind continually regurgitated that one phrase. Not good enough.
He sluggishly trudged to the changing rooms, reaching the sanctuary of the hot showers. Although the water seared his skin, he barely felt it. Tormented by the words of his coach his thoughts drifted into the rough, treacherous swells of loathing residing in his mind. Not good enough. The remark infiltrated his lucidity. When would he ever truly be good enough? He craved
His fingers stabbed and prodded at the hollows there, continuing over his stomach, where he wrenched at the pallid, translucent skin, as if he grasped evil itself. Months of starvation had eventuated in a sunken stomach, covered by mottled skin. Malevolence gleamed in his eyes, like blue oceans of melancholy and hatred, as he regarded his roughly bitten finger nails chafing at the tender skin of his thighs. His thighs were almost as emaciated as his stomach, two skeletal twigs with a gaping chasm between them. As he gouged at the non-existent fat on his withered body, he was immersed in revulsion for himself. Not good enough. Deprived of oxygen, his throat contracted suddenly, drawing rasping breaths that were agonising, yet felt like heaven before his airways were constricted by anxiety