Page 21 of Puck Me Back to Life

The boos.

The whispers.

The feeling of stepping onto the ice and knowing some people wanted me gone before I ever touched the puck.

Most of all, I remember the man in the crowd. I close my eyes and immediately hear it again.

The strange thing is that I don't remember his face anymore. I couldn't pick him out of a lineup if you paid me. I don't remember where he was sitting, what he looked like, or who he came to the game with. All I remember are the words.

Maybe that's because some version of them has been living inside my head for two years.

Tonight, somebody else just happened to say them first. My hands tighten around the balcony railing. The metal is cold beneath my palms, and I focus on the sensation because that's what every therapist I've ever had tells me to do. Ground yourself. Find something real. Something physical.

I've spent two years collecting coping mechanisms. Most of them don't work. The voice keeps echoing anyway.

You should have been the one who died.

William Grove falls.

I survive.

The world keeps turning.

My chest tightens until breathing becomes work. By the time I step back into my apartment, I feel like my skin is too tight for my body. Every thought is louder than it should be. Every memory feels close enough to touch.

I move toward the kitchen without thinking. The cookies Angela brought me are still sitting on the counter. The towel she wrapped around the container is folded neatly beside them. A glass sits near the sink. Next to it is a pen.

My eyes stop there. It's completely ordinary. Cheap plastic. Black ink. Nothing special. I stare at it anyway.

The pressure inside my head keeps building. The memories circle endlessly. The crowd. William. The blood. The voice.

You should have been the one who died.

I know exactly what I'm doing when I reach for the pen. I also know I shouldn't. Those two truths have been living side by side for months. I plunge the pen as hard as I can into my thigh.

I feel my skin break, the rush of pain flooding my thigh. Then everything goes quiet.

Not permanently. Not completely. Just enough. Enough that the memories loosen their grip for a moment. Enough that I can finally take a full breath. Enough that the panic recedes from the front of my mind and retreats somewhere farther away.

A shaky exhale leaves my chest. For the first time all night, I can think clearly.

That's the part I hate most. The fucking relief. The fact that it works.

For a few moments, everything settles. The noise fades. My thoughts stop racing. The constant pressure behind my ribs finally eases. Then I feel something else. The desire for more.

More quiet, distance, relief.

The realization turns my stomach. I stare down at the pen in my hand before throwing it across the room. It strikes the far wall and clatters onto the floor, leaving the apartment silent once again.

I brace both hands against the counter and lower my head.

No. No more. Not tonight.

The relief is already fading, but it lasts long enough for me to recognize the danger. I know where this road goes. I've been walking it for months. Every time the relief gets shorter. Every time the need gets louder. Every time I convince myself it will only be once.

The city glows beyond the windows.

Angela's cookies sit untouched on the counter.