I arrive by train early in the morning.

Dawn peeks above my head as I walk through the forest from the station to the beach. I carry a large satchel, big enough to hold a bottle of water, a felt-tip pen, my racket, and over a hundred tennis balls. Maybe one fifty. Heavy, anyway. I hunch under their weight, twigs cracking beneath my feet, the shoulder strap rubbing and bruising my skin.

The ankle’s the worst. And because it hurts, I lean into it, imagining the tendons, bones, veins, the microtissue that has served so well, so long, crushing under my weight like a pomegranate under a heavy fist.

By the time I reach the beach, I’m dragging my foot, and in response, it throbs—throbs—throbs—as if my heart has descended and taken refuge there.

The waves swallow the pain.

The cold calms the throbbing to sleep.

To sleep.

To sleep on schedule.

To eat on schedule. A trainer—years ago—had me sex on schedule.

Didn’t even help.

***

Back on the sand, I take a large gulp of water. Rummaging at the bottom of the satchel, I find the black felt pen—a dark, linear void among the fluorescent green balls lit by the sun. I grab one and write around it: ‘Too early to retire.’

Then I take my racket, give the scribble a final glance, and send it. The serve cracks against the wire mesh and flies towards the blinding sun, then plops, far into the water.

On the second ball, I write: ‘Too late to restart.’ Serve. Crack. Plop.

Third. ‘The best.’ Serve. Crack. Plop.

‘The worst.’ Serve. Crack. Plop.

‘Fucking ankle.’ Crack. Plop.

‘Too soon.’ Plop.

My last day of training. I work through the satchel faster than I expected. Beads of sweat trickle down my temples. The throbbing in my ankle starts again.

After an hour, there are no balls left. I’m heaving, the salt of my sweat burning my forehead, my shoulder aching. I’m shouting at the ankle that seems to swell under my eyes. On the horizon, the tennis balls bead the water.

I stretch on the sand, lighter, and drift to sleep.

***

The sea rolls in, wave after wave, licking at my feet. I open my eyes. The beach remains empty—no cars, no sounds of human activity. Just the wind, gently brushing through the leaves, occasionally sprinkling fine sand against my thighs and cheeks.

The foot feels better but looks worse—much worse. It’s covered in browning algae, sickening, slithering pieces of dead life. I kick my foot, and a peel somersaults in the air, landing with a slap on my chest, and I fly backwards in disgust, then land on the wrong foot. I scream, howl, and fall back onto the sand. The sun bores through my closed eyelids. I see red, gorgeous, warming red shapes undulate on the horizon.

When I stagger up, the sea has washed its algae onto the shore along with my tennis balls.

I pick up one, then another, turning them over.

Water drips from their bottoms. They are the same—translucent green, the black writing washed away. All’s been erased. I stare at them for a while, then at my arms, burnt, radiating red; the sun itself sinking behind the horizon, the air growing cooler.

I hobble. I pick up one ball after another, pulling the satchel through the sand until the beach is clear.

***

Cristian Leata is a student in the MSt in Creative Writing program at the University of Oxford, and has published fiction and non-fiction in Litro, The Frogmore Papers, and others.