Page 13 of Penalty to the Heart

It should have been me.

I’m the one who should have been there lying in a pool of my own blood, gurgling out for help.

Not Jack.

Anyone but Jack.

Like it is with most nights that I wake up like this, I get out of bed, walk to my kitchen, and grab my pain meds and a bottle of whiskey to wash them down with. I then sit on my couch, staring into the abyss, waiting for the meds and the booze to do their thing and knock me out cold.

Drunk and heavily medicated is the only way to guarantee a good night’s sleep.

Because that’s the only way I can prevent the dreams from coming at night.

The nightmares.

Like this, all that awaits me is darkness.

Pitch-black darkness.

Just like my soul.

I slowly open my eyes, feeling the harsh sunlight pierce through my eyelids. The pounding in my head matches the rhythm of my racing heart. My mouth feels like a desert, dry and parched. Groaning, I sit up straight on the couch and immediately regret it as the room starts to spin around me.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and try to piece together the fragments of memories from the night before.

Flashes of fists, disappointed glares, and the bottom of a whiskey bottle come to mind. It doesn’t astound me that the images from last night’s clusterfuck of a hockey game aren’t accompanied by a sense of regret or even shame.

What they do remind me of, however, is that Trent Nichols ordered me to be in his office at nine o’clock sharp.

Fuck.

I look around and see my phone on the floor. I pick it up and immediately see a few messages from Nate, telling me not to be late.

I also see that it’s a quarter to nine.

With rush hour traffic, I’ll be lucky if I get there at ten.

“Guess that ship has sailed,” I snicker, throwing my phone to the side.

Still, Trent will be pissed if I’m a no-show.

Fuck.

I pick up my phone again and start typing.

Me: Running a bit late.

Nichols: I said nine. I expect you here at nine on the dot.

I roll my eyes.

Me: Unless you have a time machine handy, then I’m going to be late. An hour late.

I watch the blue lines appear and disappear for a full minute.

A few months ago, Trent would be calling me every name in the book for my disobedience. But now… he’s carefully contemplating the best way to handle me. Like I’m made of glass or some shit.

Nichols: Ten it is, then.

---