Breakaway

Prologue

Pope

On the bad days, I wake up shrouded in darkness. It’s a soaked blanket around my shoulders. It’s fog coating my thoughts. It’s fingers around my throat.

Am I hungry? Maybe. I can’t tell. Am I tired? Yes. To the bone. Am I alive? Ask me again later.

I eat because it’s seven in the morning and that’s what I always do at seven. Eggs. Wheat toast. Cottage cheese. Fruit. A vitamin. Wash it all down with Gatorade. Chase the meal with a protein shake.

My roommate is here. Jules. He talks. And talks. And talks. My mouth moves and he smiles a lot, maybe even laughs, so I must be talking too. If I concentrate, I can tell that I am. But I don’t care enough to concentrate. I’ve been doing this for so long, my body performs without me. It doesn’t need me here. I’m pointless. Everything is.

On the bad days, hockey is the only thing that isn’t pointless.

On the good days, I find myself terrified that one day the bad days will be bad enough where even hockey is lost to me.

And the bad days are only getting worse.