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I rub my chest absentmindedly as I continue staring out at the rain slashing angrily against the skyscrapers. Freezing when I realize what I'm feeling, I close my eyes, letting the pain wash over me.
I've spent the last ten years doing my best to block everything out, to not feel anything. And now I'm remembering why. Feeling fucking sucks.
I stride to my bar and quickly pour myself a shot of bourbon, throwing it back and savoring the burn.
And then I pour myself another one. And another. And another.
Until I'm not seeing her eyes anymore. I'm not remembering what her lips tasted like. I'm not hearing her voice.
Everything becomes numb after a while. Just like I like it.
My skull feelslike there's a sledgehammer inside of it going to town when I wake up. I swallow and grimace at the nasty taste in my mouth. What day is it? What did I do last night?
It takes me a minute. The empty bottle of Blade and Boy Kentucky Straight on the bed next to me throws me off for a minute.
And then I see the crumpled piece of paper on the pillow next to me, and everything comes rushing back.
Of course, that's when my body decides to rebel, and I find myself running to the bathroom to puke in the sink since I can't make it to the toilet in time. My cell phone chooses that moment to go off, and a quick glance at the clock on the bathroom wall shows me that I've missed my first meeting of the day.
I stare at myself in the mirror, and I hate what I see. My eyes…they look dead. Hollow. Empty. I have no idea who I am or what I'm doing.
I decide right at that moment that I can't live like this anymore. If I can have one chance to feel again, I want to take it. It's a dumb decision, maybe the worst one of my life. But I know that if I stay in my current life for one more second, there won't be anything redeemable inside of me.
I'll be a lifeless asshole.
After washing my vomit down the sink—the cleaning ladies are going to hate me later—I march out to my bedroom and pick up my cell phone. I have five missed calls from various people at work, no doubt alarmed that I'm missing this morning.
I dial the head partner of the firm and take a deep breath, preparing myself for what I'm about to do.
"Clark, I'll be taking a three-month sabbatical…" I begin immediately.
Valentina, I'm coming for you, baby. I hope you're ready.
Quaid
It'sten in the morning, and all I can think about is how soon I can get a glass of vodka in my hands. My agent, Tommy, prattles on, talking about some college announcer spot I'm in the running for, thanks to him. Everything he says goes in one ear and out the other.
I don't know why he even still tries. While I once was his biggest client, my injury last year to my neck ensured that I missed last season. The doctors have told me I can play next season, but I know I'm a shadow of who I used to be. And the fact that the team rookie had a record-winning season last year in my place is just another nail in the coffin. Quaid Jackson, Super Bowl-winning quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys…now a benchwarmer.
I can just see the headlines now.
I take a deep inhale and notice that my hands are trembling slightly in my lap. How long has it been since I've had a drink again?
"Quaid, are you listening to me?" Tommy exasperatedly asks.
"Of course I am, Tommy. You want me to be an announcer for the suckiest conference in college. There are probably five people who even watch those teams. Actually, five is probably generous. Truly sounds like a dream, buddy. You've really nailed this one," I tell him sarcastically.
Tommy looks like he wants to punch me in the face, and I don't blame him. I've been a grade-A asshole since that outside linebacker horse collared me and ruined my life by breaking three discs in my neck.
But fuck everything, I deserve to be miserable right now. My life is fucking over.
Tommy takes a deep breath, I'm sure trying to control his baser urges.
"Quaid," he says in an annoyingly patient voice. "If you don't want to play this season, you need options."
"I'm worth a hundred and fifty million, bro. I don't think I actually need options," I drawl.
"I don't think drinking yourself to death is a good game plan for retirement," Tommy snaps, standing up and grabbing his folder from the kitchen table. "But by all means, you stupid idiot. Have at it."
