Work Text:
Molly took a deep breath as she shot at the target again.
Pull back the string slowly, feeling the way it pulled against your fingertips. Deep breath. Pull back, wiping-peanut-butter-off-your-face motion. Feel the sting of the released string on your arm as the arrow flew.
Thunk. Right next to the center.
Archery was a good outlet.
Before Molly went to camp, she’d had other outlets. Biting her nails, pulling her own hair out strand at a time, scratching at her own hands when she’d get nervous. Small tics that grew over time into something bigger.
I think the girl’s just antsy, her father said, when she’d accidentally slipped and scratched at her arm, bouncing her leg up and down at the dinner table, sparking up an argument about proper dinner etiquette.
They suggested rowing. Or volleyball. Molly wasn’t too fond of either.
Neither of those had the same kind of pride to it as archery did.
When she started archery, shot her first arrow, Molly almost cried.
She didn’t expect it to be so hard to pull back the bow’s string, or that releasing it would hurt. She didn’t expect her arrow to fly so off the mark it didn’t even hit the edge of the target.
She still went to practice the next day, though.
Every snap of the bow was another step closer to a goal, to honing a skill.
Now, she named the bruises she’d get from practice, all along her left arm.
It was different from the nervous, scared scratching she’d do. That was the scratching a tiger did at the bars of its cage, desperate to get out as it paced around its small habitat.
These bruises were a satisfying, sharp sting. A sense of accomplishment, a trophy you earned from trying the best you could. She’d roll up her sleeves some days just to show them off. Look at me. Look at what I’m accomplishing. Look at what I can win.
Usually, all she’d get was worried voices. She’d always explain that you can’t avoid the bruises in archery. It wasn’t something you chose to do. But they’d still worry.
Diane understood, though.
They never talked when they shot together on the same range. When Molly would take too long to notch the arrow into her quiver as Diane just shot like there was no tomorrow. There was an understanding, but they never said it out loud.
Diane didn’t name her bruises, but she still showed them off to Molly after, when the holy silence of archery practice could be broken. Look at how huge this one is, and this one’s colored all funky.
They’d wonder if there was a difference between theirs because Molly was right-eye dominant, and Diane was left-eye dominant. They needed more data and time.
And she liked the way Mal still asked her gently if she could touch her arm, even after she’d assured her that yes, she’s fine.
Archery was a noble sport. And Molly was proud to be part of it.