Page 88 of Pucking Them

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Rebel Arena, Freedom

D’Angelo

I must escape…mymind, skin,myfucking self.

I stagger down the long, white corridor and into the empty locker room.

I slam shut the door behind me.

…All to escape what happened after that day your brother came home and found you kissing a boy…

“Shut up.” I smack my hand against my forehead like I can drive Olivia’s voice out of my brain. “Shut up.Shut up.”

I’m trembling.

My chest is rising and falling. I struggle to drag in deep breaths. All I can hear is thebeat, beat, beatof the pulse in my ears.

I pull at my hair, before smoothing it down again three times.

One. Two. Three.

Then I tug at it again.

One. Two. Three.

Smooth it down again.

Tug. Smooth.

My head throbs.

Everything is my fault. I’ve been bad again. If I don’t wash off the evil, then I’ll infect everyone.

Kill them.

I shake my head.

That’s wrong. I’m wrong. Wait, the thought is wrong.

Where am I?

I blearily glance around myself.

My vision is blurred. I can barely make out the familiar sight of walls lined with stalls above arctic blue padded benches. The players’ equipment is hung up on each stall: pads, helmets, skates, and jerseys.

The chemical stench of rubber mixed with sweat, along with the mildew stench of hockey equipment, washes over me.

It’s the scent of safety.

It should be.

Yet everything feels off kilter.

Wrong.

I’m wrong.

Bad, bad, bad.

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