The Mute Reporter

4- Present Day

Jensen Blackwell

I haven't stopped reading the text. It wasn't erasing whenever I closed my phone.

It was still in the writing box. All I had to do was delete it and send something to Sam.

He was right about me running. I just didn't want to admit it.

So I finally just took a screenshot of what was current laid out on my screen, and deleted what Sam typed out.

What I wanted to truly text him would be stupid. He would find my address in like ten minutes just to come and slap me.

I just wanted to tell him that I still loved him. I always would. He was the only person to make me feel that way.

I would never even love a dog more than him, and fucking love dogs. That's why I have a cat.

And not just because I can scream back at my cat that it's a little shit, but because I would never love something more then Sam.

Speaking of cats, I hear a soft meow before I see my orange tabby jump on the couch next to me, cuddling into my side.

I reach out and give him a few pets, and I felt him softly purr.

"You like that, huh Rusty?" I almost smile at his name.

Sam insisted I name him based on a cat in a book series he read when he was younger. I didn't really enjoy the thought of naming my cat firestar, so rusty it was.

The song playing out on my phone suddenly switches to the fall by half alive.

I go still, because I have always refused to listen to this song all the way through for six years.

It was our song. Sam and I's. It was the first thing we truly bonded over. Music. And if the lyrics for the fall didn't explain our relationship to a T, I don't know what else did.

I skipped the rest of the song.

Another song began playing, and this time I let it. I only keep the fall in my music app in hopes that one day I'll be able to listen to it all the way through.

Sometimes I make it farther than others, but then there are the times the first note plays and I skip it completely.

I opened the messages app again, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard, Sam's number at the top of the screen.

Then my thought flashes back to the cup he was holding at the coffee shop.

Carter.

Who was Carter?

A boyfriend? Friend? Husband?

A twinge of jealousy hits me at the last one, and I frown at the feeling.

I have no right to be jealous of who he's with. If this Carter person even is a partner of his.

Finally, I just type a simple question out for him.

Me: what is your dream vacation?

I hit send before I can think anything of it and delete it.

I throw my phone across the room, not wanting to look at it.

Let it burn. Pretend it's a spider.

I get up, Rusty looking annoyed at me for standing so soon.

I hobble over to the kitchen, glad I don't have to pretend to walk normal in the safety of my own apartment.

I take my medicine. Just a few medications for my knee, and Zoloft. I had to adjust my intake of my antidepressant once I hurt my knee, so things have gotten a little worse since then.

I hear rusty meow loudly, and scratch at his food bowl.

"Shut the fuck up, you already had food tonight." I walk over to rusty and glare at him.

He just sits down expectantly, his green eyes unwavering.

Stupid cat.

I just bend down to pick up my phone instead, because it landed next to his food bowl, and limp over to my room.

I make sure to keep my phone turned off. I don't want to see any notification right now.

I set it on my nightstand and prepare for a shower instead.

The tv stops me though before I can make it to the bathroom.

"Baseball legend Garrett Blackwell allegedly is retiring. We have an inside source claiming he isn't showing up to practices."

I scowl, but that doesn't stop the tv. Nothing stops the media. 

They show a clip of me sliding into home base at the last game I played. You can't see it, or hear the snap, but that's when my PCL and ACL tore. Hurt like a mother.

All you see is my face scrunching up in pain, and I reach for my knee.

A phantom pain races across my body currently, and I rub my knee subconsciously.

I remember thinking my shoulder injury was the worst kind of pain. That changed when I hurt my knee.

"The same source claims that this injury right here is going to permanently keep him from playing. So the real question is the fact of if he wants to retire, or if he has to."

I grab the remote and shut off the tv quickly, leaving the room.

That happened months ago, and they're just now talking about it when it's convenient for them.

Assholes.

I walk back into my room, and my phone screen immediately lights up.

I check it.

Two new messages from Sam

I let it sit like that. I'll shower and then get back to that later.

Many things suck about being injured. One of them is taking off braces when you need to shower or bathe or whatever. Water just sucks with injuries.

I unstrap my knee brace, finally stepping into the relaxing water. I only have a few minutes to spare before Zoloft will make me drowsy, so I move quickly.

Albeit it doesn't make me so drowsy that I'll knock me out, just brief fatigue. But I take advantage of the feeling it gives me because I struggle to sleep without it.

I turn off the water and finally step out of the shower, drying myself off and putting everything back on.

I put a soft wrap on around my knee instead of my brace. It sucks to sleep with it on so a wrap is better.

I reach my phone, and finally open it to read the messages that Sam sent me.

The first message was an address a few miles away. The other was an actual message.

Sam: meet me here tomorrow at 1pm and I'll tell you.