A Beautiful Lie

If there was one thing Elijah learned about anxiety, it was that your mind could concoct it anytime, anywhere. From your most private moments to the middle of planning the next evacuation. Unfortunately, for Elijah, a panic attack dared to challenge him during a battle in Fullerton. The team lugged him and hid in a house until his temporary paralysis from a laser beam passed.

Before, the night terrors and anxiety attacks were exclusively memories from family or Sensei Drake. Now, past battles diluted the pool of nightmares his mind could draw from. Sometimes, a memory one would lead to another. He imagined Trevor’s death to hearing the call that Cousin Lee had died. Then his mind from “The Night in the Dark” to the Thanksgiving dinner gone awry as the backyard blew up in flames.

But Elijah sensed a weary and cloudy feeling freeze his mind and body. Once the laser symptoms passed, why should he get up? He was so tired. The ground in the hazardous building was so cool, and the room was silent. He and the team had to escort a mother and her newborn to the nearest safe haven—seven miles away—with no scratches. Comms were down, and no Lynx was available.

He always had a well of strength and endurance. Whenever he needed to dig deep, there seemed to always be another level he could find.

When he looked back, it wasn’t just the nightmares and reliving his family’s abuse that induced his weariness. Not just the war itself, but the constant scheming and planning. Rest was never an option, but the war didn’t care. And when everyone was tired, patience ran thin, especially between him and Monteverde. Elijah could remember their spat from yesterday.

“Why shouldn’t we focus on the larger force?” asked Monteverde.

“I’m saying we can do both,” said Elijah, maneuvering the Fullerton hologram. He zoomed in. “Watchdogs will use the sewers and ambush from Lane Street, southeast of Dale Boulevard, our next location. We can sweep them from behind and be a little late.”

“But we can’t be a little late, Eli! Civilians are the priority.”

“So we split. The team and I can—”

“No! Not what happened last time. Stop being obtuse!”

Elijah scoffed. “You always bring up that one time! Yet you’ll drag us into Fullerton without ever telling us why!”

It was a repeated cycle of arguments, always ending in a stalemate. But where would he find the strength now to endure? His mind actually helped him for once, and he replayed his final conversation with Sensei Drake after becoming the Grand Champion, the highest honor in the most prestigious Taekwondo tournament in California.

The Summit Tournament was held once a year for all grades. To enter, one had to be the last one standing in the Summit Prelims. Elijah competed against thirteen-year-olds, two years older than him. None contested with him. He only lost one point and became the Grand Champion of his class. That was the final test, one Sensei Drake personally saw to. Elijah had graduated, but not without one final word.

He brought the trophy to the dojo. The sweaty blue mats, the musty scent, and the rigorous warmups were now behind him. Sensei Drake was still the same, yelling at Sammy for failing to warmup.

“Are you impaired? Of course, you are. You’ve always been slower than everyone else, isn’t that right?” asked Sensei Drake. “Kick your foot higher!” Sammy couldn’t. “Pushups until this slobbering child can extend his leg!”

From Elijah’s perspective, Sammy’s kicks was serviceable, but Sensei Drake demanded perfection, and the team did sixty pushups because of it. Sammy probably strained something.

Sensei Drake glanced at the door and gestured to Elijah. “Let’s give it up. Our Grand Champion is here for the last time!”

The dojo bowed and clapped for Elijah. Elijah was proud to have won this for the team, but not for Sensei Drake. It didn’t hit until now that this was the last time he’d see Sammy, Davie, Chase, Jaylen, Aaliyah, Walker, and the rest. He stepped on and over all of them to become the best. He raised the trophy, and the applause echoed throughout the dojo.

“Start with a roundhouse and five up-downs,” said Sensei Drake. He clamped a hand on Elijah’s shoulder. “You know the trophy is yours.”

“This was a team win,” answered Elijah.

Sensei Drake chuckled. “No. It wasn’t.”

“You mind if I stay for the whole class?”

“By all means. All alumni are welcome.”

In reality, maybe less than five alumni had returned. Elijah stayed but mostly stared at his trophy, which got heavier as the training session went on. All of this. All the insults, the bruises, the secrecy from his parents, the stomachaches, the voices, and the nightmares amounted to a plastic trophy that stood half his height. Was the trophy worth it? If he were asked yesterday, yes. Today, he wasn’t so sure.

But he’d gotten so much better as a fighter. His skill reached a height he didn’t think was achievable. He was the best amongst fighters two years older.

Yet his chest constricted, and his arms weakened. His family didn’t care about this trophy. His dozens of trophies before this still meant nothing. They’d bring up his brother. Maybe if he won against Valley or took the football championship this upcoming year, he’d earn his parents, cousins, grandparents, and uncles’ respect.

Before he knew it, the class was over, and everyone high-fived him and wished him well as they headed out the door. He’d never see them again. Sammy and Walker would quit before the end of this year. Jaylen and Aaliyah were next in line.

The door clicked shut, leaving a former student and his master alone. The mats squished under Sensei Drake’s feet as he approached Elijah.

“A champion doesn’t belong with his head down,” said Sensei Drake. That was the most encouraging thing he had said in the past three years. “What do you plan on doing now?”

“Judo,” said Elijah. “Sensei Dante Jonah is the best in California.”

A silence stood between them for thirty seconds. Elijah had been building the courage to tell Sensei Drake off ever since he met him. Now that the opportunity was here, he couldn’t get himself to look into his former sensei’s eyes for more than two seconds. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea. Maybe closure wasn’t necessary.

“I’m waiting,” Sensei Drake huffed.

Elijah raised his eyebrows and met Sensei Drake’s eyes. “What?”

“You’re here because you want to know why I was so hard on you. Let me tell you something. You weren’t anything special. You’re not the first prodigy to step foot in my dojo. I’ve trained many black belts and champions. I didn’t treat you any differently.”

Elijah’s ace vanished. Sensei Drake had been through this before and had his answer prepared. He’d been setting the bait for years and cornered Elijah into it. The only thing Elijah could do was get the answer.

“W-w-why?”

“Oh, Elijah, even now you can’t keep your composure,” said Sensei Drake, chuckling incredulously. “I speak with others in my apparatus. Many have spoken highly of you. A local prodigy. News articles. A display case an eight-year-old had no business of having. Sensei Amano and I have our disagreements, but he doesn’t hand out black belts. But your technique was rigid and stale. Repetitive and predictable. And now you’re a great fighter.”

There was no joy in Sensei Drake’s voice nor pride for his student. Rather, it was full of sanctimonious praise for himself in his ability to mold Elijah.

“But you put me with kids two years older than me. In every tournament,” said Elijah, clenching his teeth. “I was humiliated in my first tournament when you elected me as captain.” He licked his lips, trying to gather words. “You… I-I had stomachaches. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t breathe. I hear your voice whenever I’m off by two degrees on an axe kick, or when I’m in my room. I have nightmares about you. My right hand shakes out of nowhere. That cost me a championship football game! How do you—?”

“And it gave you strength. Improved your confidence. Your talent accelerated. I did my job. It worked beautifully.”

Elijah couldn’t believe his sensei was dead serious. He squirmed, feeling his face turn red. “How? What kind of…”

Sensei Drake scoffed. “Elijah, you need to stop playing the victim.”

This wasn’t going the way Elijah thought it would. Sensei Drake had no regret. No sorrow or remorse for what his star pupil endured.

“Like when you tried to bring Walker into my rotation? My rotation?”

Sensei had an inner circle of fighters—Elijah, Jaylen, Chase, and Aaliyah. These four were his best and the ones he pushed the hardest. Walker was a good fighter—when not under pressure. Sensei’s answer was always, “Good kid. Not a fighter. Decent, but not great. Passable, but not elite.”

“Unlike the other tools in this world, I cared enough to actually call all you lowly ingrates out,” said Sensei Drake. “But this was the reason you joined, right?”

Elijah blinked, flabbergasted. “The reason? You don’t know my reason.”

“Sure I do. On the first day, you told me why you were doing this. There was no need to join another dojo after you’ve mastered one martial art. So why did you do this? You did it because you didn’t want to go down your life with the sad, pathetic attitude you had—and still have—since you watched your brother get pummeled by his friends. You needed to be the best. Your call was to greatness, and so you cut out all the nonsense and you focused. You embraced the chaos, all the noise, and my worst. You became one of my finest.”

But Elijah lost friends because he strove to win. He spent less time with the Seven. He stepped on everyone to be the best. His family hated him. His brother still didn’t speak. He was alone.

“You didn’t want to stand back like the others,” continued Sensei Drake. “All the trophies and tournament wins would’ve been of no value if you failed. Your standing reputation amongst the Arts would’ve diminished. And no matter what anyone says about you, you are now a champion. A Grand Champion. The best. You never got demoralized. Great ones never do. Do you still not believe that this was worth it?”

Elijah ran out of arguments, not that he could get any of them out. Acceptance was his only way out of the corner. Sensei Drake was right. How could Elijah argue? All of his accomplishments came at a price. He was willing to pay for it and did, and here he was, the Grand Champion. Suddenly, the trophy in his hand wasn’t so heavy. It wasn’t just plastic. It was his. He earned it. Yet a quiver in his chest remained.

“Besides… there’s nothing like it, huh?” said Sensei Drake with a menacing smile. “The spike in energy. That insatiable craving. Unleashing all your pent-up anger. The blood boiling. The thrill.”

Elijah breathed deep and reveled in the imagery. The brawls. The slug fests. The faint scent of sweaty rubber from the mats. When someone’s breath left their lungs after a kick to the diaphragm. The domineering feeling of seeing your opponent refusing to stare into your eyes. The whistle and the call of your name, declaring you the winner. No Dad. No Mom. No bullies, uncles, grandparents, or family. Just him, the mat, and his opponent.

That was five years ago. Elijah reveled in the memory for ten minutes. How far that conversation had taken him. Endurance through fear and anxiety led to champsionships. Shame from inferiority turned to respect and reverence from his peers. It brought him to this point: leading his team and civilians through a war-torn Fullerton. Something, out of his team, only he was capable of.

Then his muscles recalibrated, and no longer felt prickly. He moved his fingers, then clenched his fist, and curled his bicep. He brought his knees to his chest, and the team picked him up.

“Give me five minutes and we’ll move,” said Elijah.

He paced around the room, did jumping jacks, and stretched the electricity away. His chest lightened, and a second wind graced him. After the five minutes, he strapped on his bag and held his laser to his side. He leaned against the door.

“Eyes and check corners,” he said. “Rick, you see anything?”

Rick peered into Night Eagle. “Clear.”

“On me.”