The Never Wavering Arrow
By Z.W.
A bright light shines upon my face as I stir in my sleep. I shield my eyes from the harsh light with my hand and groan. I sit up, rubbing my eyes as I do, silently cursing the wretched sun for interrupting my only time of peace. I look around and see my phone buzz with a notification. Who in their right mind is messaging me this early?
I pick up the phone begrudgingly, reading the notification.
A message reading “Hey Assan! This is just a message to wake your lazy self up, because heaven forbid you get up at a reasonable time.” comes through from Rowan… Of course. I slightly snicker at the audacity, but it quickly turns into dread at having to go to school.
I stretch my arms and back before standing up and yawning. I pad over to my dresser and throw on a plain white tee with some basic cargo jeans, nothing out of the ordinary for me. I look in the mirror and see how messy my brown hair is… It’s really getting long. I almost consider brushing it, but it being shaggy is more of my style anyway.
I slip on my shoes and school bag and mentally prepare as I head to school, knowing the day is going to be strenuous. When I arrive at the school, Ferns High School for specifics, I’m met with an abrupt meeting with Rowan.
“Hey, sleepyhead! You did make it after all! It’s nice to see your face here every once in a while, you know.” While he speaks, I wonder how someone can be so cheerful in a dull world like this.
“Yeah, yeah, now can you quit with the overzealous yelling? I’d like to be able to hear during my classes today.” My words sound harsher than intended, but I’m sure Rowan knows this.
“Ah, right, sorry!” He rubs the back of his head sheepishly, having a big grin on his face.
I notice his more nicely dressed attire. Compared to his normal, uncoordinated outfits, this one seems awfully put together and neat. His clothes aren’t wrinkled, his black hair is brushed and done up in a messy bun, and he smells like cologne- maybe too much.
“What’s the occasion? You aren’t dressed like the homeless today.”
“Hey! I’ll have you know I dress perfectly fine normally! But, since you are sooo curious…” He drags on, “I have a date after school!” He flushes with clear excitement and nerves.
“A date? You? I can’t tell if I pity you or the girl who said yes.” I tease. “But hey, good for you, even if you smell like a men’s cologne shop.”
He grins and goes to reply, but is cut off by the bell. It rings mockingly, like it knows the suffering it brings.
“Well, see ya later! And don’t sleep in class either, I’m tired of the teachers complaining about it to me.” He says before rushing off to his first class.
I sigh, a lot of the staff complain to Rowan because 1, he’s the favorite, and 2, I’m his troublesome best friend. I figure I won’t ruin his big day and try to stay awake during these long, boring hours.
The first half of the day goes by pretty quickly, just listening to lectures upon lectures lets the mind drift off to a pretty interesting place- on which I won’t elaborate. Lunch comes and goes just as quickly, with some small talk with Rowan and listening to the background chatter in the lunch room.
My final class periods, on the other hand, couldn’t have been more irritating if they tried. The classes themselves are fine, but it’s the students in them that ruin it. One of, if not the most popular student is in both of them. Alias Bridgenton, the school sports pride. With a total of 10 medals from different competitions, he’s managed to be the most insufferable jerk to be around.
His most notable talent is archery, always winning the competitions held and crushing the competitors with his ego…and skill, I suppose. He never really talks to me, but he always gives me glances that you can’t quite read. His emerald eyes are piercing, and his black hair is almost blue in some lighting. I admit, he’s pretty intimidating.
But, after listening to his loud mouth for those two straining class periods, the bell rings. This time in a much more relieving sense. I grab my things and book it out of the school. The fresh air is an amazing change compared to the sweaty, BO-reeking halls in the building. I don’t bother to look for Rowan, knowing he’s probably off with the girl he mentioned earlier.
I head down the road to the archery range, my safe haven. Archery is my comfort compared to the tiresome work of everyday life. I enter the building and take my recurve bow out of its locker, replacing it with my school stuff in the meantime. Some of the other attendees wave over to me, so I reciprocate the greeting.
I head over to the range itself; it’s indoors, but it works just as well as any other. I put on my gear and finally begin practicing. Pull the drawstring back, aim, fire, repeat. Such simple actions make such a great hobby.
After a while, my arms grow achy, and my mind is tired. Despite that, I can’t afford to slack off. The most important archery competition of the year is in less than a week. While most people look at it as something Alias will just win, I want to at least attempt to get some recognition. I pull the string back once more, and my weary state must have been obvious because I’m interrupted by a familiar, irritating voice.
“Your stance is off, you know.” The voice reeks of arrogance and ego; I suddenly feel like gagging.
I turn to look who it is, already having a hunch. Alias himself, in all of his prideful glory. He wears a smirk that practically screams, “I’m better than you,” and he probably isn’t wrong. He begins to walk over, walking with the pride of a man who holds himself higher than the atmosphere.
“Assan, was it?” If condescension had a mortal form, it’s him.
“Yeah, Alias, right?” I know the answer, but I may as well make the conversation a little more bearable.
“The one and only. Now, sorry to intrude on your practice, but I couldn’t help but notice your poor form. You do know better than this, yes?”
I nod, refraining from rolling my eyes.
“Good, but if you can’t even keep your form at a reasonable state, then why are you practicing? A good archer mustn’t overwork themselves too much; I can account for that.” He looks off as he speaks, as if caught in a memory. He shakes his head, “Regardless, I’ve seen your talent, and I wouldn’t want you to burn it out, before a competition no less.”
I don’t know how to feel about that; such words of praise are surprising from him. I sigh and shake my head, looking back at my bow.
“I assume you’ll be participating in the competition, yes?” his words break the brief silence.
I nod, “Yes, I’ll be participating.”
He smirks, “Good.”
He begins to walk off, but not before giving one last line of pride.
“Don’t disappoint me, Assan. I’ll be looking forward to our next meeting at the competition.” He walks out of the range like he hadn’t just put a large expectation on my shoulders.
I groan and decide to pack up my bow. It’s not like I’ll be able to focus now anyway. For being a jerk, he gave some pretty smart advice, all things considered. I put my bow in my locker and grab my stuff, slinging my bag over my shoulder, and walk out of the building.
I pull out my phone and see Rowan has messaged me a couple of times about him and that girl’s date. Apparently, it went great. I sent back some generic positive messages before turning my phone off. I’ve got bigger things to worry about.
The next few days go partway decent. Rowan hasn’t given me any headaches, Alias keeps to himself, and my training has been productive. Even if I feel a pit in my stomach when it’s mentioned, I feel more confident about it now. Honestly, I’m looking forward to it, to prove myself.
But, like any other time when life goes well, something happens. My bow breaks. The top portion of the bow snapped when I pulled it back like I normally did. I knew the thing was old, but did it really have to break the day before the competition? I have it sent to the shop; thankfully, since I’ve been going to this range for so long, they offer to do it for free.
They gave me a measly replacement bow for the meantime; this could not have been worse timing. I train with the bow, but it’s far more difficult than it should be. It’s too light, it doesn’t bend like it should, and it feels flimsy. There goes my only chance of proving myself. The highest I get is a 9 on the target, and that was pure luck at best. That night, I just sit and accept my impending defeat.
How am I supposed to win a competition that my only chance of winning has been sabotaged? I know I should have more resolve, but I can’t just gaslight myself into thinking I’ll win. I suppose Alias should’ve had a little less faith…
The morning of the competition rolls around, a Saturday morning that I’d normally spend sleeping. Instead, I’m standing off to the side, watching the competition go by while I wait for my turn. The lighting is bright, and it’s hot inside the range. This is going to go terribly.
Suddenly, the announcer calls over the intercom, “Ladies and gentlemen! Our next contestant is a long-time winner who comes from Fern High School…Alias Brigenton!” The audience erupts into applause as he walks into the range. He smirks and waves to the crowd, looking all around at the audience till he spots me. He locks eyes with me and mouths the words “Watch this.”
I feel a stab of anxiety as I observe him getting ready to fire. His technique is flawless, with not a single point of weakness. He shoots the target, hitting the bullseye with ease. He proceeds to shoot the other targets with bullseyes, earning the highest possible score of 50. He undeniably has the skill and the determination to back up his ego. I may not be able to win, but I might be able to tie.
After he gets his final score tallied, he walks off the range and back into the waiting area for contestants. Not without shooting me a final look of pride. Never have I ever wanted to punch a smirk off of someone’s face before until now. I sigh, mentally preparing again.
“And now, for our final contestant… Assan Hildegade!” I practically feel my stomach drop to my feet. I take a deep breath to steel my nerves and rush to the waiting area to grab my bow and head onto the range. I do that walk of shame most people do when giving a presentation, but then I raise my head and walk with a little more dignity.
There is no applause for me like there was for Alias, just pitiful attempts at recognition from the crowd. I look around, and targets are positioned at different distances and heights. The lights are far too bright, honestly. Do they even think about the contestants? Or are we just a display item? Never mind that.
I look around the audience, and seeing Rowan cheering for me brings some calm to my nerves. I catch eyes with Alias again, and he nods at me. I sigh, here goes nothing.
I bring the bow up and pull back the drawstring like I’d done a thousand times before. The bow feels unfamiliar in my hands, and it only worsens my confidence. I aim at the first target, a thousand worries running through my mind at once. I try to silence them for the time being and fire the arrow. It weaves through the air like a hot knife through butter, better than I could have ever expected.
It hits the bullseye, surprisingly. I suppress a grin; maybe the odds aren’t entirely out of my favor. The next three targets go smoothly despite the increased difficulty. But it’s now the final target, the most difficult one. It’s stationed the furthest away, is angled at an inopportune position, and the wind is blowing in the opposite direction. With the stakes given, the circumstances occurring, and my overall abilities, I feel those thoughts creep back in.
What if I don’t make this shot? Would he still have faith in me? What if I fail? Would I humiliate myself? What if I show how worthless I am? Would it-
“Don’t disappoint me, Assan. I’ll be looking forward to our next meeting at the competition.” his words flood back to my head. Right. No time for worrying. I didn’t put in all of this hard work for nothing. After all, I have to prove myself at one point, and I’m not letting this opportunity slide.
I pull the drawstring back, aiming carefully with the wind direction. I take a deep breath and fire, watching the arrow never waver once in its travel. It hits the bullseye dead center, not a single way to misconceive its position. The crowd is silent for a moment, a long, painful moment, but suddenly the audience roars with cheers and applause. I look around to see Rowan cheering louder than most, but then I also see Alias applauding with a proud look.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I smile ear to ear uncontrollably, laughing in relief more than humor. I walk back into the waiting area for archers, giving myself some time away from the crowd.
Since Alias and I tied our score, we both got to take home a gold medal. First time I’ve ever gotten one. After the competition, I was met with praise and a very proud Rowan, who goes on about how he secretly knew this would happen, even though he probably didn’t. I decide to head to the place outside behind the range after the whole ordeal. It’s a bench with a tiny pond that no one seems to go to.
I sit on the bench and lean back with an exhausted sigh, thinking back to the previous week. Meeting Alias, my training, my bow breaking, the competition, everything. I feel a grin tug at my lips at it all. Who knew all of that would come to this? My peaceful moment of reminiscing is quickly interrupted, though, as a voice I’ve come to know all too well returns.
“Well, isn’t this an interesting place to relax? I must say, this would not be my first pick.” Alias, who walks over and sits next to me, says in a much calmer tone compared to his normal arrogance.
I shrug, “Yeah, but at least it’s quiet. That’s all I ask for.”
He snickers, “How simple-minded of you.”
I scoff and roll my eyes, “It’s not simple-minded, it’s logical after whatever that loud competition was.”
“Sure, sure, now, I’ve come to congratulate you. It isn’t every day that someone ties me, in a competition no less. You did well out there.” The words are oddly sincere coming from someone like him. I feel a smile creep onto my face.
“Who knew the pride of Ferns High School was so sentimental after all? I feel honored,” I joke with him, causing his reaction of sputtering before scoffing.
“Don’t get too cocky, brat.” His attempt to regain his composure is quite entertaining.
I shake my head, “Anyway, thanks for that. It was really you who was a driving factor for me to even participate. I guess I owe it to ya after all.”
He grins, “Now who’s getting sentimental?”
“Shut up!”
We end up laughing it off and giving a fist bump. I guess this could be the start of something new, a friendship you could call it. Who knew that this is where one measly competition could lead me? I guess, in the end of it all, through hardships and condescending comments, hard work never fails you.
