Page 162 of Puck Me Back to Life

By the time I reach my apartment, grocery bags have cut deep grooves into my fingers. I put everything away methodically.

Every movement feels automatic. Something to keep my hands busy. Something to stop my brain.

It doesn't work.

The apartment is too quiet. William's face finds me almost immediately.

Noah's voice follows close behind. Some pathetic excuse for a hockey player is still alive.

I close my eyes.

Don't.

Please don't.

I can't believe he's dead...

I swallow hard. The groceries are already put away. There's nothing left to organize. Nothing left to distract myself with. The silence begins pressing in from every direction.

Angela is probably home. If I stay out here, she'll hear me.

I quietly walk down the hallway and slip into the bathroom before locking the door behind me. The room is barely large enough to turn around in. Cold tile. White walls. A mirror hanging above the sink.

I grip the edge of the counter until my knuckles turn white. “Breathe.”

My own voice sounds unfamiliar.

I inhale.

Exhale.

It doesn't help.

Noah's face flashes through my mind.

Then William's.

Then the ice.

Then blood.

Then Mrs. Grove squeezing my hand across that conference table.

“You didn't mean to hurt him.”

A strangled sound escapes my throat. I slide slowly down the vanity until I'm sitting on the cold tile floor. The panic comes all at once. My breathing falls apart. Tears blur the bathroom into streaks of white and silver.

I pull my knees against my chest and bury my face in my arms.

No.

No.

No.

I tried.

God, I tried.