Page 43 of The Has-Been

My fingers tremble as I open my driver’s side door, stepping out into the parking lot of the arena. A deep exhale escapes my pursed lips with such force, I’m surprised I don’t whistle like a teapot boiling over.

One foot in front of the other, I encourage myself.

I look down at my feet, rooted in place as if fused to the concrete beneath them.

I force my left foot forward, then my right, repeating the motion until I start taking full strides. Until I’m standing before the doors of the arena, the place where everything began and ended.

Just as I’m about to reach for the doors, I turn on a heel, knowing that it’s not the arena I need to face today.

No. It’s the light pole a few feet away that stares mockingly at me. It was once the only source of light on the pedestrian skybridge connecting the parking garage to the players’ entrance. Now, though, you’ll find no light streaming from it.

I stare at it, eyes trailing up and up. No one has replaced the bulb yet, and now I can’t help but remember the night it went out.

My shoulders slide down the cool metal of the overhead light’s support beam until my bottom thumps against the ground beneath me.

Chills ghost over my body, sending shivers down my spine. I know it’s not from the cold; it’s August in Michigan, so the weather is fair. Yet a coolness bites at me regardless.

I know what’s really causing them.

Me. I did this to myself.

My heart flies in my chest, beating so wildly I can’t hear anything besides the pounding of it in my ears.

I’m pretty sure my phone has been ringing, shoved into one of my pockets that seems so far away, too much of an effort to try and find it.

My arms are heavy as I reach for a small stone, rolling it in my palm before hurling it at the arena ahead of me.

I know it’s still too far away, that no matter how hard I try to hit the building, I’m far too weak—too high to make my aim worthwhile.

A shallow breath wheezes past my lips. I have to force it, compelling my body to take in the air and then let it out, feeling suddenly like a chore, like a task I have to do.

I clutch at my head, throwing my skull back against the light pole supporting my back. A dull ache spreads across it, a welcome feeling as it distracts my brain from the arena, from the injury, from the future I can see off in the distance—unable to reach.

I do it again.

Again.

Each time, I throw my head back a bit harder, slamming it against the metal. Over and over.

Until I become so weak that I slump over. I think I vomit, the sour contents plastering against the front of my shirt, but I’m not certain; everything is starting to become fuzzy.

My vision, it seems, is content on leaving me, too.

People approach. Rough hands are trying to shake me awake. I think it’s Reid. It sounds like him anyway. I try to form words, to tell him to leave me alone, that I don’t want to wake up. I was just starting to enjoy the silence, the peace, the reprieve from darkness that is myself these days.

A cold sweat beads on my forehead.

Another form appears.

Is that really her standing in front of me?

No. No, it couldn’t be.

“Aubs?” I question, certain I’m hallucinating this all.

Her head wags at me, eyes looking away like she can’t tolerate seeing me this way.

“How many did you take?” She spits. Her warm, brown stare now vacant and cold.