Page 76 of The Fall
The world dims; my breath tangles in the fabric, and I choke on sudden, soul-shuddering sobs. One more breath … one more. One more memory of what never really was. I grasp another handful of the jersey, sinking deeper into what I know is madness.
Three seconds. Three seconds of unbecoming. Then ten. Twenty. I lose track of time, holding Blair’s jersey to my face as I weep on my kitchen floor. Eventually, I pull myself up enough to lean back against the cupboards. There’s alcohol here,somewhere. I fumble for it, find vodka, and take a deep swig straight from the bottle.
I wanted so much more than this.
I sit in the dark and hold Blair’s name over my heart. Tonight, I’m not Torey Kendrick. I’m not anything at all.
I drink. God, do I drink, but it doesn’t fill the void.
Nothing does.
Eighteen
It starts as a bargain:one drink to dull the edges.
The first pour is easy. Vodka’s cheap enough, easy enough, and the burn on the way down matches the way my insides twist when I think about him.
One more. I tip the bottle, emptying another inch into my glass.
Dull the world. Dull me.
The chaos quiets. I don’t have to think about the ice or the game or my team that hates me, and I don’t have to think about how I can’t find the me that knows how to handle a puck without it turning to vapor in my hands.
I don’t have to think about Blair. But there’s a sting in that last thought; I don’t want tonotthink about him.
One more.
In the morning, my head pounds like it’s caught between the glass and the ice. I groan, pull my sheets over my face. Blair’s jersey is crumpled into a ball against my chest.
Practice. Shit. Fucking hell.
I throw back some aspirin and try to choke down Gatorade, but by the time I roll into the rink with my hoodie yanked over my head and headphones stuffed in my ears, it’s clear I won’t be fooling anyone.
On the ice, nothing goes right. When I tighten my gloves, they pinch. When I edge my skates, they drag.
“Get your shit together, Kendrick!” Coach bellows.
I can’t.
It’s vodka again after practice. Last night’s bottle was for drowning whispers, but tonight, it’s for the silence after.
My glass empties faster with each pour.
I don’t evenlikevodka. No one likes vodka; it’s a means to an end. I like the nothing it gives me, though.
I see his face when I close my eyes, and when I open them—it’s the same. He’s everywhere. He’s nowhere.
It’s easier to close my eyes and let the bottle drain than to let the darkness chew on my thoughts. Waves crash, and his voice is there—Torey,Never forget,Remember.
And then, nothing.
My hangover is a fist hammering me behind my eyes.
I sit at the end of the bench and stare at my skates. The rest of my team is out there, running drills and laughing about some bullshit I can’t catch. Coach’s whistle slices straight through my skull and I bite down on a surge of nausea that rips through me. I need to move, get up, do something, but I can’t.
“Kendrick—seriously?” Coach shouts.
“…bench him for good, Wilhelm.” Someone says it, but it sounds so far away.
