Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 6

The first thing I felt was pain.

A pounding, drilling ache throbbed at the side of my skull like someone was using my brain as a snare drum. My mouth tasted like battery acid and regret, and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth like I’d licked sandpaper in my sleep. The ceiling above me was unfamiliar at first, too white, too bright. But then the memories started crawling back: the bar, the bitter fizz of cheap beer, Olive’s headlights, the way she looked at me like I was something she needed to save.

I groaned, dragging myself out of bed, sheets tangled around my legs like they wanted to keep me there, frozen in shame and sweat. My body ached, not from the night before, but from everything else: my father’s voice still echoing like a curse, the weight of not being enough pressing down on my ribs.

I stumbled into the bathroom, flicking on the light with a hiss. I looked like shit. Pale. Lips cracked. Eyes bloodshot. A rough shadow traced my jawline, making me look older, like the kind of guy who’s been through things he doesn’t talk about.

The water came on hot and sharp, steam curling around my skin as I stepped into the shower. I let the spray hit my face first, trying to wash away the headache, the memories, the smell of beer and maybe...god...vomit. I tilted my head back, letting the droplets drum against my skin. It didn’t help. Not really.

My hands slid down my chest, across my abs, muscle and tension coiled together like armor I didn’t ask for. I knew what I looked like. Girls looked at me. Hell, some guys did too. Chiseled, they'd say. Cut. I knew how to smirk at the right moment, how to show just enough skin after practice. But under all that? It was just me. Tired. Angry. Always trying to outrun whatever the hell was chasing me.

As I washed the sweat and beer from my body, the dream came creeping back.

Or at least… the pieces of it.

It wasn’t a dream, really. More like a montage, a broken movie reel flickering too fast. Faces blurred, moments bleeding into each other, like a memory I never lived. Flashes of light, shadows of hands reaching, lips moving but saying nothing I could hear. Like someone whispering underwater.

But her voice, that was real.

Soft. Familiar. Like it lived in the marrow of my bones.

It echoed in the back of my mind, threaded with warmth, with something old and aching. It was the kind of voice that made you want to turn toward it in a crowded room. The kind of voice you don’t forget even if you can’t place where it came from.

I pressed my palms flat against the tile wall, steam curling around me like smoke. Who was she?

Why did it feel like I knew her?

And why the hell did I wake up whispering I’m sorry to no one?

I threw on a hoodie and joggers, hoping they’d hide how hollow I felt. My head still pounded with the aftermath of last night, and that damn dream clung to my skull like smoke, her voice lingering, like she belonged somewhere deeper in me than memory could reach.

I made my way downstairs, the faint clatter of plates and the soft hum of the TV in the background mixing with the scent of eggs and toast. For a second, I almost imagined it was one of the good mornings. The kind I used to wake up to when I was still his “little basketball star.”

Mom was at the counter, quietly setting breakfast on the table. Her eyes flicked up to me, just for a second. Then back down to the pan. Like she didn’t want to look too long. Or maybe… she just didn’t know how to look at me anymore.

Then came his voice.

“You think you deserve to eat after that report card?” Dad spat, not even bothering to look up from his coffee. “Good-for-nothing like you should learn to starve. Might finally wake up and grow some damn sense.”