Page 9 of King of Pain

I want to believe that. I want to feel the warmth in her message, to let it soothe the ache in my chest. But guilt is a relentless companion. It clings to me, whispering insidious doubts—telling me I abandoned her, that I ran away instead of standing my ground like I always have.

I close my eyes and grip the postcard tightly, the red X burning into my vision. She wanted this for me. A fresh start. Achance to figure out who I am without the shadows of my father or a life in that world looming over me.

Don’t come back.

Her message echoes in my head. Some might misunderstand its meaning, but I know better. It’s a sacrifice she would make repeatedly. She would rather keep me at a distance than watch me walk the path I was destined to follow if I had stayed.

Tomorrow is my first day atDevil Records, and the thought fills me with equal parts excitement and dread.

It’s a real job, a normal job, something I’ve never had before. I’ve spent my life running envelopes of cash, keeping my head down, and moving through the world unnoticed. High school and club hockey were my only semblance of normalcy. Hell, the only things I’ve ever known are The Doves and hockey. Retail feels like it will be a completely different universe.

I’ve always loved older music. Vinyl has a way of feeling alive, its imperfections and crackles telling a story. I grew up listening to my mom’s records: Duran Duran, Depeche Mode, The Police. She used to dance around the kitchen, singing into a wooden spoon, her voice carrying a warmth that made everything feel okay, even when it wasn’t.

Working at a record shop feels like a step toward something new that I can be passionate about.

But I’m nervous.

Fuck, what if I’m terrible at it? What if my coworkers hate me? What if they can tell, just by looking at me, that I’m not like them—that I don’t belong?

I shake my head, trying to push the thoughts away. Frank and Kathy seemed nice enough when they hired me—eccentric, sure, but nice.

I haven’t met the guy who’s supposed to train me yet, but Kathy mentioned him during my interview. “You’ll like him,”she’d said with a tender smile. “He’s a good guy. A little quiet, but he knows his stuff.”

I wonder what he’s like. If he’ll be friendly, or if he’ll see me as just another hassle to deal with.

I glance at the clock. It’s late, but I don’t feel like sleeping. Instead, I pick up the postcard again, staring at the skyline mom crossed off in red.

Boston feels so far away, like another lifetime.

Tomorrow, I start something new.

And maybe, just maybe, I’ll figure myself out.

TRACK FIVE

More Than This

Anthony

The sound of my own gasp pulls me out of the nightmare, my chest heaving as I bolt upright in bed. For a split second, I don’t know where I am. The familiar sight of my dorm room slowly comes into focus: the cracked ceiling tile above my bed, the small desk in the corner, the pile of dirty laundry I keep meaning to deal with.

I rub my hands over my face, trying to shake the lingering feeling of dread. The nightmare wasn’t anything new. Flashes of dark hallways, the oppressive scent of incense, whispered threats crawling under my skin.

“Just a dream,” I mutter to myself, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The room feels too small, too quiet, and I need to move.

My morning routine is simple, almost mechanical. I need it to be, or I’ll find myself overthinking every little thing.

I head to my makeshift kitchen, start the coffee maker, and grab the blender. I toss in a banana, a scoop of protein powder, some almond milk, and a handful of frozen berries. The whir of the motor fills the room, drowning out the remnants of the nightmare still swirling in my head.

While the shake blends, I start some toast and crack a couple of eggs into a pan on my hot plate, letting the smell of them cooking fill the air. I can’t wait to have a real kitchen. I love to cook, but this dorm setup is for shit.

The whole grain toast pops out of the toaster, and I spread a thin layer of peanut butter over it. I pour my shake into a tumbler and scarf down the eggs and toast.

The routine steadies me. It’s something I can control.

Practice comes next. By the time I make it to the field, the sun is already blazing. Sweat starts beading on my forehead before I’ve even stretched.

The team’s energy is high this morning, a mix of anticipation and competitiveness as we run through drills. Football is one of the few places where I can shut my brain off, let the physicality of it drown out everything else.