Page 69 of Finding Him
A punch for the mother I was letting down.
“Get him out of here!”
A punch for the father I hated for leaving me.
“Go!”
My fists were hitting nothing but air now, and I could feel everything I’d just punched out of me flying back in, possessing my being again.
I’ve had a genuine black-out I realize. I’m in the tunnel now with Fitzy—he’d been the one to pull me off I think—looking down at my hands. They didn’t look like hands though. They were slick with red, and couldn’t stay still. Some of the blood was from my own split knuckles, the rest—I suspected—belonging to the Stratford lad.
“Niall,” Fitzy says. “Lad, look at me—Jesus, are you locked?”
“I’m grand, Joey, get offa me.”
“I’m not touching you, mate,” he says. His voice is soft, and familiar. It makes me think of the time I fell off my bike at the end of our estate, slamming right into the Powers’ mailbox, thesummer after Da died. Mrs. Fitzpatrick had fixed up my skinned elbows and scraped knees and bloody nose, while I tried to act all tough and cool.
Fitzy’s voice now reminds me of hers back then, sweet and stern wrapped up in warmth. The kind of voice that makes you want to let your guard down.
I almost told her I did it on purpose. That I hurt myself that day on purpose, because I’d just wanted to know if it felt any different than being hurt on the inside.
It didn’t.
I never told her. And I won’t tell Fitzy it feels like I did this on purpose either.
“BLUE!”
Shit.Coach.
“What in the name of all that is holy is wrong with you?”
Fitzy steps back, letting Coach get in my face. He was whispering, low and angry like if he spoke any louder he’d crack the foundation of the tunnel. “One fight in school is a mistake. Two fights in three days would be a pattern, at best. But this? Assaulting a spectator at an away game? Do you have any idea what you’ve fecking done, lad?”
I clear my throat, trying to muster up a response. All my earlier rage simmers back down into shame. Shame is almost worse than pain, in a way. Because the thing about shame is that you always know it's your own fault. “Sir—”
O’Shea grabbed the lapels of my tracksuit jacket, shaking me once. I wonder if he saw the same thing in my eyes that Fitzy did. The thing that made him take a tiny step back. “You are the captain of thisteam, son! You represent this school, and you represent that name on your back! Do you have any idea what’s coming for you on Monday morning? You’ll be lucky if Lynch just suspends you. You could get expelled, Niall. No more school, no academy this summer, no more football period. Over, done.”
Maybe, if I were a bit more sober, I’d care. I should care. The voices in my head are screaming at me, reminding me to care.
But right nowno moresounds deathly appealing.
“Get in that locker room,” O’Shea commands, releasing me with a shove that pushes me against the wall. “Do not come out until I say so. I have to go out there and try to convince them not to call the Guards. And for the love of Christ—drink some fucking water, son.”
28
Nauseous
Niall
October, 2007
I'M UNDERWATER.
Well, barely.
The showerhead in here sucks, though I stand under it nonetheless. It’s doing its job of sobering me up, almost a little too well. Each passing second feels like a suckerpunch to the groin, reminding me just how badly I’ve fucked up.
I lean my forehead against the tile, watching the water as it runs a translucent pink (finally) down to the drain. I was alone but I felt entirely exposed, like I was on display at a museum.
