I tape them.
Not to heal.
To contain.
I wrap the tape tight around my knuckles, then around my wrist, creating a brace. A new ritual. A reinforcement. A leash against the rage. Each loop digs into my skin, a deliberate constriction. I pull until the blood has to fight to move past it.
The tape is a cage. One I choose. One I can tighten.
It bites, sharp and unyielding—a reminder of control, a reminder that the only monster I have any right to fear is the one with my eyes.
I’m not sorry I slammed him. I’m only sorry I lost control. Let the rage out of its cage. I am one of those monsters—just a territorial one. I caged the guy who insulted her, but the cage is still the same.
And I’m sorry she’ll hear about it.
She’ll hear the rumors. She’ll see the bruises. She’ll think I’m another animal. She’ll think I’m the monster. She’ll never know the violence was clean, directed—the most controlled thing I did all day.
She won't ever know that the second hit I craved wasn't for me; it was to wipe the sound of her name from Rylan’s mouth.
And she’ll never know I did it to keep the other monsters away from her.
I walk into the bedroom, the tape stiff on my hand. My new armor, rough and unforgiving, contains the break. It chafes, a constant reminder of the chaos I caged—and the soft skin it will never touch.
The apartment is dim, lit only by the glow of the digital clock on my nightstand and the strip of streetlight sneaking under the blinds. My bed is still made: hospital corners, pillows stacked. Order in a life that keeps trying to tilt sideways. Control held together with rituals and tape.
My phone sits on the nightstand where I threw it. The screen is lit.
Beatrice:You need to learn to control that temper, darling. It’s not attractive when it’s sloppy. Call me.
She calls it sloppy.
That’s what she thinks happened. That the violence was messy. Undisciplined.
She has no idea.
I scroll down.
Adrian:You good? Coach is still pissed. Let me know what you need.
There’s more. A text from Gio with a meme about angry goalies. A notification about some alumni donor event for which my father RSVP’d me without asking.
All of them want something. An answer. An appearance. A performance.
I scroll past their names. My thumb, stiff and awkward in the white tape, hovers. I’m looking for something I never earned.
A connection I never made.
Talia.
I scroll again, slowly, dragging the screen up. Searching for Talia Addison in a list where she doesn’t exist. For the quiet, perfect stillness that contaminated everything.
Nothing.
Of course, there isn’t.
She doesn’t have my number. She probably doesn't even know my last name. And I never took hers.
She was there tonight—I know it. That prickle in the rink. A ghost I could feel but couldn’t see. And I have no direct line. No way to confirm. No way to know. A failure of control that cuts deeper than the wounds on my knuckles.
