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I write my post tediously…
Elijah Hayes secret drug addiction?
It’s simple. It’s to the point. It doesn’t say anything in particular. I post anonymously across various social media channels that focus on St. Paul University feeds. Now the whole campus will know he’s not some superstar; he’s a failure like the rest of us.
Five minutes after my post I get a call from Stephanie, and she sounds panicked. “Are you seeing what someone is posting about Elijah all over socials? Oh my god, Taylor. It’s bad. Really bad.”
“Oh, I’ve seen it,” I say.
“Shit. Taylor. I’m coming over right now.”
“No—” She hangs up on me. Oh well. I don’t know why she feels the need to protect Elijah, like he’s done anything for her, like he’s done anything for anyone but himself.
Ten minutes pass, and my post is going viral. Like actually going viral. It’s leaving the campus feeds and going across trending posts on Twitter. I bite my lip. This is more than I wanted…
Stephanie barges into my room, sweaty and frantic.
“FUCKING DELETE IT TAYLOR!” She screams. I slam my head back on the baseboard of my bed.
“Oh my god, chill out,” I say, standing up.
Stephanie rips my phone from my hands and runs with it down the hall. I chase after her, but she locks herself in the bathroom. I can hear her gasps on the other side.
“Stephanie, it’s not that big of a deal.”
She comes out of the bathroom with my phone in her hand, then throws it to the ground, causing it to shatter across the hardwood.
“For fuck’s sake,” I say, bending down to pick up the pieces.
“It’s viral, Taylor. It’s gone viral. It’s made Buzzfeed. I deleted the post, and I deleted your fucking account.”
I feel that creeping shame suddenly overwhelm me, suffocating me entirely. Stephanie slaps me across the face and walks away without saying another word. I drop to my knees, landing in the little pieces of my phone still scattered across the wood.
What have I done?
29
ELIJAH HAYES
I’ve never considered killing myself or even considered how death would truly feel before. Maybe it would be some sort of bliss that would sweep me away, taking any pain and worries. But maybe it would be harsh and painful and not as sudden as it should be. Maybe, when I do actually die, it’s not like how everyone says it’ll be, but I’ll be burning in some pit in hell for the things I’ve said and done in my life.
I don’t want to kill myself. But what is my life if not hockey, if not being exactly who I am? Who am I if I’m not a St. Paul Royal, if I’m just some drug addict that follows in the footsteps of his notorious father?
The plane lands and, for the first time in my life, I don’t care that it did. I don’t care that it didn’t crash on the way down.
I grab my bags and take an uber home. I can tell the uber driver recognizes me as he keeps looking at me through the rearview mirror. I’m not ready to dispute any claims, I’m not ready to say I’m not addicted. Because what if I am? And what if maybe I am actually a terrible person?
I get home, leaving my bag at the bottom of the stairs as I climb them, barely able to move my body at all. I’ve never felt such a heavy feeling, as if someone’s poured wet cement over me, and I’m trying to break free before it dries and drowns me beneath. By the time I reach the top of the stairs, I’m practically crawling.
I see a slumped figure by the hall bathroom and crawl to it shamelessly.
Taylor sits with her head rested against the wall, her legs sprawled. Her face is blotchy and red like mine, her eyes glazed over.
I sit next to her. Her state of immobility suggests that she was, in fact, the one to release those photos. I’m too fucking tired to be angry, too confused to wring her neck until the lights of her eyes go out.
She flops a limp hand on top of mine and angles her head towards me, tears streaming from her eyes like a faucet, but she doesn’t blink.
“You…” she whispers, her words wobbly, “never have to forgive me.”
