Delete.
That wasn’t honest of me. I wasn’t unfit, I was just… rattled. I could name that and still lead a group, help people heal.
I left the subject line unchanged and the body empty, unsent. A small red Draft flag appeared in the corner of it, proof I’d thought about doing the right thing. Or about running.
I told myself I’d send it after one last watch. Once I could say exactly what I had reacted to: Colt, or the way the crowd applauded violence until it stopped breathing.
Professional curiosity,I told myself, while my skin said otherwise.
I paused the video, my food left untouched, and stared at my wall for a solid minute. The plaster was cracked. Stained from leaks I could never afford to repair.
This house had been in my family for generations. Tucked away on a Chicago side street in an untrendy area. An oldVictorian, and a burden more than an inheritance. I’d tried to sell it twice but offers had been laughable. Evidently, no one wanted a broken-down relic that groaned through the night.
Not to mention the back door latch which never sat flush. As if the house always kept its mouth open. A loose tooth in an old jaw.
The sounds alone were enough to give anyone nightmares. My radiator ticked in uneven time, trying its best to offer warmth. But the walls ate heat like a tithe I never agreed to pay. The financial cost was painful; an obscene electricity bill each month.
Heat rose anyway. Inside and out. I blamed the radiator and closed my laptop.
The glow of the television in my neighbor’s living room caught my eye again, playing the clip over and over.
The final punch, the one Colt threw at the end, made my stomach harden. Colt, a tank in flesh, didn’t stop until there was nothing left for him to fight.
Across the street, my neighbor’s TV went black. The window gave my face back to me. Silence held but compulsion didn’t.
I sat motionless for a moment, fork loose in my fingers. My breath snagged while dinner went cold, and my hands refused to behave.
And then, because I couldn’t help myself, I opened my laptop again.
Found the video.
And pressed play.
2
BLAIR
Wednesday came fasterthan I thought it would.
On my way to group session, the train smelled of wet coats and coins. Every pane of glass returned a faint likeness of me. I stood the entire way because sitting invited questions I wasn’t ready to answer.
On the walk from the station, Chicago’s famous wind pushed me along storefronts until I landed under the corner market’s huge television. The fight clip played on mute above my head. Fists flashing on the rink.
Colt.
A mom paused on the sidewalk next to me with her son as they both stared up at the TV. His face went still, the way kids do when they learn something adults won’t say out loud.
The mother shifted, her body blocking the screen. But not me.
The TV held my gaze for a second too long. I’d already rewound him at home; this time, the city pressed play for me. On the glass, my reflection stood where a penalty box should have been.
They both moved away, and I stayed in front of the store alone. Watching. The type of footage that would remain on the news for days. As I stood, the city made its judgment. But my body kept its own counsel. My face felt hot in the cold light of the screen.
Too much wind, I thought.
I nudged myself to keep moving and didn’t, but the street signal counted me anyway.
The WALK digits slid down.
