Necessary Evil

Love brings pain.

How many times have I heard these wise words?

In relationships. In sex. In football. The only three things that matter in life.

I repeat these words once again, as I fall to the ground with a loud thump.

Shit. That hurt.

“Watch out, you moron!” I scream to the other player.

Holding a bit of tape in my teeth, I wrap my left knee with an elastic bandage. With one hand I fix the end of the bandage above the knee, with the other, stretching it, I do several rounds around the joint, then I fix it with the tape. And although my father taught me how to make a spiral bandage, I did a circular one. A kind of small insignificant protest.

I move my foot to make sure the bandage fits well. I raise my head to look at the small beach soccer field where they’ve been waiting for me - it’s been fifteen minutes - but no one seems angry at me. I earned respect for my impeccable football game. Whether it’s sand or grass, I always play like the magician Ronnie. Ronnie is Ronaldinho, one of the best football players in the world. Although, I think I exaggerated my skills a little by putting myself next to him.

I press my feet deeper into the sand, smelling the Mediterranean Sea, and expose my face to the wind that smells of salt and seaweed.

Today is the twenty-third of June. The day in Sitges has turned out to be too hot, so the slight coolness of the evening breeze is a little more pleasant than usual. The sun moves lazily towards the horizon, painting the sea a shimmering orange hue.

Like every Tuesday, my friends and I gather at St. Sebastian Beach to play beach soccer. This beach is located on the north side of the city. It is still a lively area, but it is further away from the hustle and bustle of Sitges that appears in all tourist guides. Yes, there are a lot of beachgoers here in the middle of the day, but by the evening the place calms down and becomes our best and cheapest place to play football. It’s a beautiful beach, about half a kilometer long, with a few chiringuitos (that’s a seaside bar for you non-Spanish) that sell great beer and tapas. Behind the chiringuito line, there is a wide promenade lined with beachfront restaurants: mostly seafood and rice paired with classic tourist food...nothing fancy. They all now begin to prepare for the always busy dinner time.

We love this place: on the southern end of the beach is the church of St. Sebastian, the perfect symbol of this city that everyone remembers. On the other hand, Aiguadolç, the main seaport of Sitges. And for us, this is the place to go: good location, good sand and lots of bars to hang out when the game is over.

“Vic, we are waiting only for you!” Ricky screams. He’s all sweaty, looks at me with tenderness in his eyes, at odds with the displeased tone of his voice. Covering the upper part of my face with the visor of a black cap and squinting, I look at the black-haired guy: his bright green eyes are waiting for my answer.

Ricky is my boyfriend, he lives with his mother in Barcelona and confidently gnaws his way into the modeling business, because it seems that God himself loved him by giving him an incredible appearance. A mixture of Spanish and Syrian, I think this is the best thing that could happen to Ricky despite the fact that his father left the “family” barely Ricky had time to be born.

Unlike Ricky, and most of my acquaintances, I still have not realized who I want to become. Why does society force you to choose your path for life right after graduation, when you have no experience and lack a holistic vision of life? How can you expect people to make informed choices about what they will do, when their life is just beginning? I was among those unfortunates who find it difficult to decide which of their addictions is their favourite. And as strange as it may be, I did not begin to build a career as a football player, no matter that I am more than good at it. My father has been projecting his love for football onto me since I was born. However, my father’s love for me burned out, because he caught fire with another love - for his son, my younger brother. Still, thanks to diligent studies and persistent attempts to draw the attention of my father to myself, I have reached the level that I now own.

Maybe my father never loved me.

I walk lazily across the hot sand and find myself in the center of a beach soccer field.

“Phil, have you decided to play against me today? ” I ask my new “friend”, who stands on the other side of the field.

“I like to play against someone who is stronger than for him.” Phil lifts his chin and looks at me like he’s giving me a fucking compliment.

I smile, feeling a little sad: I really would like a man like Phil to go to the same college with me and graduate from it. Taking the first steps in adult life side by side with a friend - what could be better, right? However, Phil has long decided on his path.

I will gnaw my way to my success alone; in impenetrable darkness; in an attempt to find out what I still want.

“Don’t come crying into my vest about losing.” I take off my cap and casually throw it out of bounds.

As soon as I touch the ball with my foot while accepting a pass from Ricky, the sweet hormone adrenaline begins to reign in my veins.

Time is running fast and the sun has already left the sky, but we do not even think of going home.

I run across the sand after the ball at the same time as Phil. I wrestle with him for the ball, turn sharply to the left to make an evasive maneuver, but my face hits something hard. Something solid.

For a moment, my eyes go dark, and I feel a sharp pain on the left side of my face, but it immediately recedes. I stop and try to stand on my feet, placing my hand on the affected area. I realize that I hear nothing but ringing in my ears. After a couple of seconds, it clears up. The ringing gradually disappears.

I get frightened, realizing that the blow is strong and a bruise may appear on my face, and forgetting about the game, I rush home with a quick step - I urgently need to apply ice to my face.

Before snapping back at Phil’s alarmed questions behind my back, I remind myself that this was a playful moment and it wasn’t his fault. So, I gleefully wave it off and assure him that everything is in order, while hastily lacing up my white Converses.

As I walk out onto the busy embankment, I feel something running down my face near my left eye. I startle with fright when I touch the affected area with my hand and see blood on my fingers. My breathing quickens and I feel a growing panic.

Ricky, who has just run up, almost knocking down a passerby, grabs me by the shoulders and turns me towards him and asks:

“Everything is fine?” He examines my face, his eyes widen, and I’m even more frightened.

“No, it’s not okay!” I react, almost breaking into a scream. “I need to find ice urgently, don’t delay me!”

I want to scream: “Dear problems, please give me a little break. I’m still your regular customer!” But I just clench my jaw.

I try to yell back at Ricky for my grievances, but fortunately Phil and my best friend Marina run up to us.

“What happened?” Marina asks, looking at me puzzled. Seeing the blood on my face, she frowns and looks at Phil, and I rest my eyes on the nearest palm tree.

Marina is my old friend from school. She is a year younger than me, perhaps that is why she imitates me: everything that I like, she automatically likes. The way she dresses, the way she talks, she’s trying to be like me. Even now she is dressed almost exactly like me.

“Come to me.” Phil offers, panting. The apartment he rents is closer, so I silently turn around and head in the direction where Phil lives. A few seconds later, all three of them are already walking beside me.

Phil’s house is about 300 meters from the beach, so it doesn’t take long for us to get there. Phil comes from London. The company he works for is building a hotel complex in Sitges. In just a few days of his stay in Sitges, we became good friends, although we have few common interests, but here are some of them - hanging out, getting drunk, playing football.

Maybe later I’ll tell you how we met him, it’s a fun story.

Phil lives in a white villa with dark blue shutters and a view of the seaport. These are some of the most luxurious houses here: they still retain some of the old Sitges vibe with white stucco walls and wooden shutters, but have recently been refurbished to offer you all the modern conveniences you could wish for. And hey, there are not that many places in town within walking distance from the beach and harbor.

As the four of us go to Phil’s house, uncontrollable tears of self-pity run down my cheeks and Ricky immediately notices them:

“Are you in pain?” In the soft look of green eyes, concern is read.

“No, I just don’t want to have a bruise.”

“How did it happen? Is that Phil?” Ricky’s voice sounds like Phil is an enemy who did this on purpose.

“Usual playtime.” I sigh and run my hand through his black curly hair, which has already grown well.

Ricky looks at Phil angrily, and he jokingly stands behind me, although he is taller than me. And I’m glad, because, looking at Phil, self-pity is replaced by anger at him.

“You’re an idiot, Phil. Couldn’t you swing your elbows more carefully when you turn around?” I speak angrily.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Phil is visibly worried, but is confident. Of course, it’s just a minor injury.

I sigh: Phil is right, if I bury him in the sand now, it won’t change anything. Then fear pierces me again that a bruise will remain, and I angrily punch Phil in the shoulder. Too weak to express any anger, more like a friendly stroking with my fist.

“I’ve already apologized a thousand times, what else can I do?” Phil looks at me with regret and it seems to me that he is trying to bring his hand to my face, and I, averting my eyes, decide not to check my guess and step aside.

“Nothing, moron.” I tell him.

Phil puts on his typical sly expression, and my smile breaks out. Phil is the kind of person who can easily put a smile on your face even when you’re holding a grudge against him. Phil can not be called handsome - a guy of ordinary appearance, but his charisma compensates for this in full. High forehead, thin lips, small gray eyes and blond hair. He looks like Neil Patrick Harris, they even share the same hairstyle.

I bring my hand to my face, touch my eyelid with my fingers and blood remains on them.

“Thank you for not killing me for ruining your girlfriend’s face.” Phil turns to Ricky and I playfully kick Phil in the ass. He manages to dodge, and laughs.

“Make sure she doesn’t kill you herself.” Ricky gently kisses my temple. “It’s okay baby, it’ll heal quickly.”

I smile lazily. Ricky is a head taller than me, charming and athletic, handsome but irresponsible. It is for this reason that thoughts of breaking up with him visit my head. Although this is complete nonsense, I agree. How can I expect adult masculine behavior from a young man?

I don’t know what I want.