I vibrated on the spot, searing heat rushing through me like I was made of lava. Without glancing at my mom, I fled for the door, slamming it on my way out of the house. I threw myself into my Jeep. My breath turned to white mist as it met the frigid cold. Snow lay deep on the surrounding fields, and my boots were soaked through just from the walk from my house to the drive. Winter held New England firmly in its clenched fist.
I put my hands on the steering wheel, squeezing the leather. Like it did every time I got behind the wheel, that night came crashing back into my mind. My hands shook just by sitting in the Jeep. My breath grew labored, and I felt weak, so goddamn weak at how the memories took me down, at how just sitting in a car could ruin me, that I gave myself over to the anger inside. I let it flood my body, hot and livid, until I shook from it. My muscles grew so tight in my chest that they ached. I gritted my teeth, letting the boiling-hot flames inside of me sear any trace of who I was before. I let it build and build, from my toes to my scalp until it was all I was made of. Then I let it take over. I handed over the reins and roared out into the night, full of all the fury that was trying to escape. I slammed my hands on the steering wheel, kicked out my leg until my foot collided with the stereo system, knocking it out of the dashboard until it hung, suspended before me.
When my voice grew hoarse and all my breath was expelled, I stayed tense in the seat and glared at the rural white farm-style house that was once my sanctuary. I
hated this place now. My gaze flickered to the top right window, and a slice of pain managed to sneak through, stabbing at my heart. “No,” I hissed, and I averted my eyes from that bedroom.
Not now. I wasn’t letting that pain in now.
I tried to move the car. But for a moment, I was paralyzed. Caught in the Purgatory I’d been thrust into a year ago. When everything had flipped on a dime and the cookie-cutter mask that had disguised our idyllic family life was firmly yanked off—
I closed my eyes and let the fire take over. Slamming the key into the ignition, I opened my eyes and skidded out of the drive, the tires scrambling to find purchase on the black ice that coated our dirt driveway. I smelled rubber burning as I pushed the accelerator to its max. The fear of driving was there, like a low-grade fever threatening to spike. But I held it down. Just let myself burn and eviscerate any of the emotion that tried to edge through.
It had to be this way. I couldn’t sink back to that place where everything was empty and lacking—a sinkhole that was impossible to climb out of. Instead, I leaned into this visceral rage that now controlled me. I gave myself over to hate—of the world, of people, of everything that stood to expose what I’d buried down deep.
But mostly, I focused on hating him. The hatred and fury I had toward him were a roaring pyre doused with gasoline.
I blinked, coming back into myself. I had driven without direction, without thought, lost in my head, and found myself approaching the one place I tried to stay away from.
We have to try something …
My mom’s words ran on a loop inside my brain.
No, they wanted me gone. They wanted to get rid of the son who was causing them strife. Me! No talk of the other son. But me, the one who remained. The one he had left behind. The one he hadn’t even cared about when did what he did …
The first sign of my chest collapsing began to needle into my sternum. Frantically, I pulled into a parking bay and threw the driver’s door open. The chill from Massachusetts’s harsh winter slapped against my skin. My black Henley, beanie, and ripped jeans did nothing to stave off the cold. But I let it sink into my bones. I
wanted to hurt. It was the only time I was reminded that I was still alive. That and the anger that had tunneled into my soul a year ago and had only grown in strength ever since.
Before I knew it, my feet were moving. I passed car after car, recognizing each one as I did. What was I even doing here? I didn’t want to be here, yet my feet kept propelling me forward. They took me in through the side door, where the sounds that were once like home to me now felt distant and no longer part of my life. Low voices shouting calls, sticks slapping against ice, and pucks and blades cutting through glass.
Yet, I felt nothing.
Climbing the stairs higher and higher, I didn’t stop until I was in the nosebleeds, well out of sight. I sat down on the hard plastic seat and threaded my hands together. Every muscle in my body was tight as my eyes focused on the ice. As I watched my former friends and teammates practicing. Making runs, breakaways, and dekes. Firing shot after shot at Timpson, the goalie who rarely let anything pass. His nickname wasn’t Shut Out for nothing.
“Here!” the most familiar voice called, cutting through the arena, and I felt a sharp stab in my stomach.
Eriksson powered forward, taking the puck, and soared up the ice. With a perfectly aimed shot, it sailed into the net, lighting up the lamp.
I used to be right there beside him.
My leg bounced in agitation, and I fought to not inhale the freshness of the ice, to feel the sharpness of the cold air filling the arena. I pulled off my beanie and ran my hand through my dark hair. The tattoos on the backs of my hands stood out against my paler skin. Tattoos. So many tattoos and piercings now covered my body, just about erasing any sign of the person I was before.
I closed my eyes when the sounds of warring hockey sticks and boards being slammed into began to instigate a migraine from hell. Jumping to my feet, I pounded down the stairs toward the side door. I had just made it to the hallway when I heard, “Woods?”
I froze mid-step. Heard the sound of Eriksson leaving the ice, bladed feet awkwardly running on the hard surface behind me. But I kept moving, I kept going, avoiding my former best friend until a framed jersey mounted on the arena wall stopped me dead in my tracks. W
OODS 33 stood proudly in the hallway. I
N M
EMORIAM was written on a bronze plaque above it, an individual team picture with his smiling face beaming back at me.
It was a punch right to my gut. I hadn’t been prepared for it. It had sneaked through. It had struck unannounced—
“Cael!” Eriksson’s voice was closer now. I turned my head and saw him approaching, and my heart started to slam against my ribs. The look of hope and excitement on his face almost made my legs give out. “Cael! You should have told me you were coming.” Stephan Eriksson was breathless from trying to catch me. He still held his stick from the practice he’d just run out on, and pulled off his helmet, placing it on the floor by his bladed feet. I just stared at him. I couldn’t make myself move.
He’d been there with me. He’d seen it all with me.
Eriksson’s attention flickered to the framed jersey before me, sadness engulfing his expression. “Coach had it put up a couple of months back. Said some really nice things about him. You were invited, but …”
Shivers ran up my spine, causing every inch of skin on my body to break out in goose bumps. I could see Stephan studying how I looked now. See him looking at my tattooed hands and chest and neck. See him tracking my pierced nose and bottom lip, the black gauges in my ears.
“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you, man,” he said, trying to edge closer. He gestured to the direction of the ice. “For months. We miss you.” He took a deep breath. “I miss you. It’s not the same without you, brother.”
Brother …
That word was like a machete slicing my chest, splitting me where I stood. Feeling the familiar fire melt the ice that had built in me the minute I stepped into this arena, I spat, “I’m not your brother.” Then, looking at the framed jersey that hovered like an omen beside me, I slammed my fist right into the center of the navy-blue number 33. I felt the broken glass dig into my knuckles and the warmth of my blood hit my skin as it began to drip down to my wrist.
“Jesus, Woods! Stop!” Stephan shouted, but I was already pushing out of the exit door and into the darkening winter evening. I ran across the lot, lungs burning, and jumped into my car, ignoring Stephan trying to signal me down from the side door.
What the hell had I been thinking, coming here?
I skidded out of the parking lot, trying to stop my hands from shaking. That frame. That framed jersey.
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.