Page 3 of Catcher

My fists hang at my sides, trembling with the effort it takes not to put them through the wall.

Because the fight is over, but the war inside me never ends.

I get to work alongside Everest, moving fast, clearing broken bottles, shoving tables upright. Then I kneel over a shattered barstool, scraping jagged edges off the floor. I taste the metallic tang in my mouth again, not from blood on my hands, but the memory of it hitting his face, the way it cracked under my fists. I know I’m fucked up, but I’m too far gone to care. I glance over by the entrance to see Chief Richards there with Riggs, and in the background, two cruisers with lights spinning, sirens quiet.

“Richards,” Riggs says. “Cleanup’s underway.”

The sheriff’s eyes flick over the wreckage, then to Riggs.

“Am I gonna find any dead men in my city as a result of this?” the sheriff asks, voice low, clipped.

“Not tonight,” Riggs replies. He’s calm, steady, and unflinching.

I get back to working in silence, my chest still humming with adrenaline. I focus on the cleanup, sweeping shards, wiping tables, and stacking chairs. But inside, everything is loud.

After several minutes, the sheriff leaves, and Riggs comes back inside. His eyes are on me, and he doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. I know what he sees—the fight, the rage, the ghosts I carry.

“We’re closing for the night. Finish up,” Riggs barks.

As I finish cleaning up the bar, the mess inside my head starts to settle… a little. Not gone, just contained.

Minutes pass. The metallic scent of blood, alcohol, and smoke mixes with the wet mop and cleaner. I breathe it in. The adrenaline fades, replaced with the dull ache that’s always there after a fight. It’s the kind that burrows into my bones, reminding me I’m alive but never really at peace. I keep cleaning, letting the rhythm of it absorb the leftover fire in me. For a little while, it’s just me, the bar, and the mess I can control.

Everest steps over to me, hand on my shoulder briefly. “Don’t let the pain burn you up, brother,” Everest says.

I look down at my hands, knuckles raw, the scars of countless fights etched into my skin that feel similar to both punishment and salvation. It’s a reminder of the chaos swirling inside me since my wife and child were taken from me. It’s an empty ache that claws at my insides, like a crushing weight of loss that refuses to let go.

Several hours later.

I’m kneeling on the nursery floor. A hint of fresh pine and sawdust fills the air. The crib I spent hours sanding, staining, and assembling stands pristine in the center of the room. The fresh paint on the walls smells of hope, and everything I ever wanted but didn’t know I deserved.

Hannah walks in. The curve of her belly is round, and she is glowing. Her pale-yellow sundress brushes her knees. She smiles. The kind of smile that could make a man forget the world. I feel it in my chest.

“Almost done.” I brush a strand of hair from her face, and as I stare at her, all I feel is peace.

Then everything shifts.

Her smile wavers.

Her dress darkens until it’s soaked with blood.

My stomach twists, bile rising.

She’s falling backward, reaching for me, and I can’t catch her.

The walls around me bend, and the crib twists into splinters. The stench of iron and rot drown out the fragrance of pine. Hannah’s face contorts in pain, her eyes wide and pleading.

I run, but the room stretches on forever. Every step I take, the floorboards crack beneath me. The sound of her voice becomes a wail, echoing off walls that weren’t walls a second ago. Then blackness closes in on me.

I reach for Hannah, my hands closing on nothing. Her screams and blood all crash together. My fists slam into the empty air.

My body jerks awake, heart hammering against my ribcage as if it’s trying to escape. Sweat slicks my skin, my hair is stuck to my forehead, and my chest heaves as I stare at the shadows of my bedroom walls here at the clubhouse.

I take in a deep breath.

Then another.

I turn my head and glance at the alarm clock sitting on the nightstand. It’s early morning, a couple of hours before sunrise.