Confessions & Recollections III

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed in Room 621 of the Kimpton-Sawyer in Sacramento. Every single light in my room is on, including the bathroom. I can’t sleep, my head feels like a bell tower at noon. Thirty-six hours out from the biggest match of my career (each is bigger than the last when it comes to title defenses), and I’m an absolute mess. I thumb open the lock screen on my phone. No new messages, texts, nothing of the sort. I try to focus on the room. The carpet is gray with crisscrossing lines in triplicate. The curtains to the balcony window are brown and tan, separated as if the room should have a chair rail. There’s a maroon chair in the corner without arms. I don’t like it. I don’t like the weird hunter green headboard that doesn’t really match the rest of the room. I should drown it all out in the darkness, but I need to keep thinking. I need to keep my mind moving. I can’t give them the space. Mother told me I’d spent the last four weeks at Winter’s Port. Fishing, sailing, enjoying the sun. I keep looking at my skin. It’s still the pale tone it's always been. Was I ever outside? I don’t remember much of anything. Was I ever in Winter’s Port? My last memory was Michigan. Walking around the Chapel grounds. Admiring the flowers Lily had planted at my behest.  When I entered the Chapel, that’s when things started to get hazy. I could have sworn that’s where I’ve been the last few weeks. I don’t feel them scratching around the corners, not yet anyway. It’s like that sound in winter, when a mouse gets into the wall. That interminable digging, clawing, chewing, and scratching. Trying to find an exit between wood, drywall, and insulation I know they’re waiting. I know I will try and resist them. As long as I can. I know that they will win. The low whisper of voices slowly becomes an operatic cacophony. How much longer can we co-exist? How much longer before the hunger returns? The real equalizer. My right hand subconsciously travels to my left arm and starts pressing around in the crook of the elbow. What am I doing? Find the vein. That’s a voice I’ve not heard since… My body shudders and trembles slightly in the aftermath. My toes dig into the gray carpet, which my mind transforms into a cement floor. I’m so cold. Shivering. We can make the others go away. Just you and me, Donovan. Leah found her way back in. All you need is a taste. I want that for you. You deserve it. No. I think I said that out loud. My eyes shoot around the room. How long have I been sitting here? My toe knuckles have turned a strained white. I finally relax them out of the carpet and watch as color slowly returns to them. I thumb across my phone’s lock screen again. 2:52. A text message has come through. “Good morning, Donovan. Please reach out when you can. I just need to know you’re okay.” Jess. Haven’t heard or seen her since flying in after Tropical Turmoil. A perfect week. And yet I did what I’ve always done. Watched myself crawl into the abyss and sat with my legs swinging carefree over the ledge, waiting to watch myself crawl back out. “I’m okay.” I say aloud to Jess, who is 3,000 miles across the country. “I’m okay.” I clumsily thumb out the text message. “Haven’t been feeling like myself. Talk soon.” I might be lying. She probably knows this. Just another thing Donovan Winters has failed at in life. One thing after another until the last ten months. The last eight months? What has happened to you since losing to Daytona? You found something. Feel it at your fingertips. Grasp it. Tighter. Don’t let go! Let go, Donovan. Come back to me. Come back to us. The doctors keep filling our head with nonsense about spoons and not having enough. You only need One. You know who you can call. You know who can help. ‘Tona. Lowell. They can set you right. They can make us happy again. No. Why are you being so difficult, Donovan? I’m only trying to help. I only want you to feel your best. I know you know that. No. I thumb across my phone’s lock screen a third time. 2:59 AM. I open the contacts. Scroll down to J - Jess St. Cloud. I hear the line ring on the other end, followed by her voice. That sweet voice. Color floods back into my world. I can feel the tears escaping. I start unloading. Decades of piled up trauma that had only ever come out to doctors in the hospital. She is patient, caring, and understanding. Stop talking to her! She cannot give you what you want. She cannot give you what you need. You need to stop wasting your time, Donovan. I stop listening to Leah. My focus is on Jess. I relax. A little. I lay back on the bed and stare at the faux-popcorn ceiling. I think back to her apartment a month ago and think about the week we spent being friends and lovers. I focus on her voice as she tells me everything’s going to be okay. That she’s going to be here for me, anything I need. A phone call or text away. She asks if she should fly out to Sacramento. I don’t hesitate and tell her I’ll pay for the ticket. She tells me she’ll see me tonight. Tells me not to worry. Tells me she loves me. Everything’s going to be okay. Down Down Down We go To the depths of our soul.