Page 74 of Choke

God damn, that hurts.

I’m not sure if it hurt from the dream, from the pain of losing my best friend that night, from the pain of being so fucking helpless and useless—he’d shown signs of something being wrong all night, I asked him if he was okay, but I didn’t know what I was seeing. I did nothing. I lost control when the shit hit the fan, and I tried to pull the medic off of him because I couldn’t comprehend what was happening, and I panicked. I panicked while he died.

I stand up from the bed; I start to pace the room, those words repeating in my head again and again.

I panicked while he died.

My stomach twists.

I panicked while he died.

My breath hitches.

I panicked.

He died.

SLAM

My fist connects with the wall. The sound rips through the quiet, a sickening crunch of drywall giving way. Pain shoots up my knuckles like a live wire, sharp and burning. It radiates to my elbow before settling deep in my wrist. The plaster cracks and creates a design that looks like shattered ice.

It does nothing to ease the pain in my chest.

That rushing feeling hits me again. My legs give out, and suddenly I’m on my ass, chest heaving, sweat cooling too fast against my skin. My pulse pounds in my ears, erratic, uneven—like my heart is trying to claw its way out of my fucking ribs. I cradle my busted hand in my lap, blood throbbing beneath my knuckles, swelling already setting in. My other hand rubs over my chest, desperate to knead the ache away.

Am I having a heart attack?

I move back against the bed, pressing my fist to my chest. My ribs feel like they are caving in. Like my body is still fighting a battle it’s already lost.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Check the signs. Arm? Fine. Stomach? Fine. No dizziness, no tingling. If I can calm the fuck down, my breathing will be fine. But my heart—my heart fucking hurts.

Not surprising. It’s hurt since that night.

If I hadn’t gone for another beer, if I hadn’t dragged him to Boston for that game, if I…

Stop.

I reach up and spin my alarm clock: 4:15 a.m. I might as well get dressed and head to work early since there’s not a chance in hell I’ll get back to sleep tonight. Even if I could, the threat of returning to that nightmare is too great. I can’t go back there.

I push myself up from the floor. My limbs feel like lead—slow, sluggish, uncooperative. Every muscle protests as I drag myself toward the small bathroom. The reflection that greets me is rough; thick stubble coats my face, and the bags under my eyes relay how little sleep I’ve had in the last ten years. I don’t know where to start, so I keep rubbing that space on my chest, willing the pain that’s been there since that night to go away.

I create a mental checklist and work through each thing.

•Take a shower

•Shave your face

•Have breakfast

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