I kill the light and go to bed, lie down on top of the covers in my t-shirt and dress pants, staring at the ceiling like it’s about to blink first.
I wait for sleep. It doesn’t come.
I listen to the silence, and wonder if tomorrow I’ll be able to make it through the whole day without remembering the sound of gunshots, or the way Cap’s little brother hugged me like I was the last thing tethering him to the world.
I wonder if any of us will.
Eventually, the window goes from black to blue, and I know it’s time to get up again.
It’s always time to get up.
THE WEIGHT ROOM
The shrink’s office is the color of oat milk, which is some kind of sick joke.
The carpet, the chair, the tasteful print of a heron lifting off a foggy pond, all of it beige.
Even the coffee they offer, Keurig crap with creamer pre-mixed, is one shade away from the walls.
It’s supposed to make you feel safe, Dr. Sharma said, when I joked about the lack of windows the first week. “People talk better without distractions.”
As if I’d open a vein for her just because there’s nothing else to look at.
She’s waiting for me now, not in her usual upright posture, but with her legs tucked up on the chair and a coffee balanced on her knee. “You’re two minutes early,” she says, like it’s a compliment.
I think it’s a trap.
I take the chair with the fewest stains and sit at the very edge, so I can bolt if this gets too real.
Dr. Sharma does her little pause, waiting for me to “initiate the conversation,” as if talking about myself is the prize for surviving a mass shooting. “How are you doing, Asher?”
I fake a grin. “Well, I’ve discovered that time travel is real, because every night around three AM I get sucked back to the moment Cap’s helmet exploded like a microwaved egg. But on the plus side, I can’t taste hospital Jell-O anymore, so win-win.”
She nods, not even a flinch. “Still having the nightmares?”
“Not really nightmares,” I say. “More like replays. I keep trying to change the channel, but it’s the only thing on.” It comes out funnier in my head.
She writes something on her pad. Probably “patient uses humor as avoidance mechanism.” Underline, underline. Next week’s copay will go toward unpacking that shit.
“You mentioned the headaches last time. Any better?”
“Eh. Advil does nothing. I think my brain just likes to throb, gives it purpose.”
More notes. “Have you told your trainer?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “They’re thrilled. Said it’s my one elite stat.”
She knows I’m dodging. It’s a game, now, me seeing how many times I can joke before she calls me on it.
Today’s number is six.
“Let’s talk about the funeral,” she says, flipping pages. “You were there, but you said you felt like an outsider.”
“I mean, I’m always the extra.” I gesture at my own face, which still has a faint yellow bruise under the eye, healing up real nice, thanks for asking. “Nobody looks at the sub and says, ‘yeah, that’s the future of the franchise.’”
“You’re not just talking about hockey,” she says. It’s not a question.
“Nope.” I pick at a thread on my jeans. “I wasn’t really close with Cap. I didn’t go out with the guys, didn’t do the rookie hazing, never even got invited to the poker games. At the wake, people kept asking me who I was. Even the bartender looked at me like I’d crashed a wedding.”
