Saving Boston (Rewritten)

Throw In The Towel

My hand extended in front of me to shut off the ringing phone beside me, and the next thing I knew was glass shattering on the ground next to where I fell asleep. The sound cut through my head, piercing me with pain that pounded through my veins and made my eyes ache as they blinked open. When I found myself staring down at the familiar black sheets, I shoved away from the mattress below me.

Before I could slip away from the bed, I noticed the broken bottle of whiskey on the ground. A heavy sigh left my lips as I stared down at the mess, realizing I had drank it all. My feet planted firmly on the ground as I dropped my head into my hands, and all I could do was remind myself how badly I continued to fuck up.

It wasn't as hard to pick myself up from the bed, but how to make it from here to the door without seeing any of her stuff lying around the apartment. Everything remained the same. After the truth came out, I haven't been back here. The last night we shared together felt like the start of forever, but it was the beginning of an end. A tragic fucking ending.

I could never ask her to clean any of it up. From the shirts she stranded on the floor to the hair products all over the bathroom sink, I would never offer her the chance to get any of them back. Because if she erased every trace of the mark she left on my apartment, she would erase herself from me, and I needed something to prove it was all real - something to prove that she was real.

When my phone started ringing, I nearly found myself aching to throw it, but instead of letting the pain consume me, I slid the answer button across the screen. "What?"

"Kid?" John's soothing voice came through. "I didn't see you last night. So, I was calling to make sure you were okay."

"I am sorry I didn't stay longer," I rubbed my head as the throbbing continued to knock at my temple.

"I wasn't calling to express my sadness about your absence; I was calling to make sure you made it home safely and that you are doing okay."

"I am doing okay," I mumbled as I stared down at the broken glass on the floor. "Everything is fine."

A heavy sigh came from the other end. "I am always here if you need me."

"Congratulations, John," I kept my voice low as the guilt of ruining months of sobriety ate away at me. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"I love you, kid."

Without saying another word, I ended the phone call. I could never bring myself to say those three words to him. He considered himself my father, but I could never call him dad. The man who held that title was sitting in a prison cell, rotting away from the traces of abuse he left on my body. And as much as I despise that man, I stare down at the broken bottles on the floor, wondering if I am turning out to be just like him.

My hands never hurt a woman or scarred a child, but my criminal record says I have an issue with fighting. He used to drown in alcohol, but somehow I was the only one suffocating.  Nowadays, I would drink my old man under the table. His alcohol levels could never reach mine, and that was something he would have been proud of. But how is it that I am turning out to be the man I hated the most in this world?

Every morning, I wake up wondering how to avoid the mirror. What if I can't stand the person staring back at me? What if I look in the mirror and I see my father? Because now I am alone, as is he, and I am trying to figure out what makes us any different.

Dizziness swept over me as I stood to my feet, but I could care less about the pain pounding in my head and the glass on the floor; I moved toward the duffle bag I hadn't touched in over a year. I slung the strap over my shoulder before moving toward the elevator doors. My eyes tried to stay focused on whatever was in front of me, afraid that if they steered away, I'd see something I didn't want to. And I don't know how I made it, but suddenly, I was in the elevator.

The effects of alcohol still swept over me in waves, making me nauseous with the slow movements. With the rain falling down upon me, I walked through the empty streets with my hands secured tightly in my pockets. Somehow when the world was falling apart and I didn't have a place to call my own, I always knew of somewhere I could call my temporary home.

When a bright light came from the familiar building, my eyebrows furrowed in confusion. The harsh weather made it difficult to see, but I wasn't blind to the person walking around the gym. As I grew closer, I noticed the man standing inside. I pulled on the door handle, allowing the small bell above me to ding.

"Kid?" John looked up from his clipboard. "What are you doing here?"

My head moved back and forth as I pulled down my hood. "I couldn't sleep."

He stopped flipping through his papers to give his attention to me. "Are you okay? I can smell - you know what, never mind. Did you come here because you needed a friend or a distraction?"

My eyebrows furrowed as I stared at him. "Why does it matter?"

"Because either way, I want to help you find a solution."

I dropped my duffle bag, signaling to the gloves I hadn't touched since the day John called off my fight. "This is all I know, and I don't know if I am lost because I haven't had it or because I don't have her, and I need to figure it out."

"Then wrap your hands and put on your gloves. I'll be around if you want to get in the ring."

"I want to fight again, John," I said as he turned away.

His head moved back and forth as his back turned to me. "You aren't ready for that, Kinnick."

"Not ready? There isn't a person fighting today who could beat me, John."

He walked toward me, pointing toward the side of his head. "Mentally, you are somewhere else."

"John -"

"I am not training you."

"Why are you turning me down?"

"Because you don't have good intentions."

"I need to fight again," the muscles in my neck strained as I snapped. "What do I have if I don't have this? This is all I know!"

"You are drinking again," his voice stayed hard even when tears welled in his eyes. "I can smell the fucking whiskey, Kinnick. If you want this, you'll change."

"I tried -"

"No, you didn't try," he barked as a tear fell down his face. "You started to feel something again and couldn't allow yourself to, so you drowned it out."

"You think I don't feel?" My voice raised. "Why do you think I picked up a bottle in the first place? You started carrying around Naloxone to save me from overdosing. How many times does it have to happen for you to realize I don't want to be saved anymore?"

"Kinnick -"

"I found somebody who made my fucking world spin. She helped me understand waking up in the morning didn't have to be so fucking hard. I never thought about escaping when I was around her. I stopped feeling the urge to use when I realized she got me higher than any drug. She made me crave sobriety. That curly-haired girl was my fucking redemption. She was my god damn reason -"

"And you think I am not capable of feeling, but she made me a different person. I felt what it was like when she was here, and I felt everything shift when she walked away. How am I to live when the person who made me feel alive isn't around anymore? Because I am struggling, John. It is as if all of the oxygen in the world has slowly started to disappear. There is no air left to breathe, and I am not trying to save myself. I am losing the biggest fight right now, but it isn't worth trying to win anymore. At this point, I am ready to throw in the towel."