Blood, Guilt, and Glory

A college star’s dark secret unleashes a descent into a blurred nightmare.

In that dank, humid interrogation room at the local police station, my father—also my lawyer—sat across from me, his voice rising in anger. “Miles, concentrate! I need you to focus so we can get to the bottom of why you’re here,” he commanded.

But my mind wasn’t on his urgent tone. Instead, I was fixated on the awful, sickly green walls that bordered the cement confines of this dismal cell. Their color reminded me of decay, of something perpetually rotting beneath the surface.

“You already know the story,” I muttered, bitterness coating every word. “Why must we continue this circle jerk of elucidation?”

My father hesitated for a moment. “Because…” he began, then sank back into his chair. His once-impeccable thousand-dollar suit now bore the unmistakable stains of perspiration beneath his arms. I knew he cared about me—about my well-being—but the self-loathing that had become my constant companion made it nearly impossible to accept it.

“I need to understand the full scope of what happened, so I can help you. Please, let me help you, son.”

The word “son” cut through the haze of my despair like a shard of ice, sending a sharp, frigid chill down my spine. The thought of confessing the darkness that had consumed me—the terrible person I had become, and the atrocious acts I had committed—was unbearable. Parents, I’d once believed, were meant to love their children unconditionally, forgiving even the most heinous betrayals of trust. But I feared that if I bared my soul to him—the only person left who cared whether I spent the rest of my life in a darkened, cement cell—he would simply stand, snatch up his battered black briefcase, and leave without uttering a word of comfort or forgiveness.

“Miles!” he bellowed suddenly, forcefully slamming his palm onto the table. The reverberation seemed to shake the stagnant air in the room.

Without breaking my gaze from the grotesque wall, I asked coolly, “Did you bring what I asked?”

Rolling his eyes with a mixture of exasperation and resignation, my father rose and moved to the door. He peered through a small, murky window in the frame—ensuring that the buzzards in blue outside were not eavesdropping on our conversation—before returning to his seat. With deliberate care, he opened his briefcase and withdrew three items: a pint of whiskey, a pack of Camel Lights, and my customized Zippo lighter.

“There,” he said, his tone edged with impatience, “Happy? Can we begin now?”

I accepted his offerings with resigned ritual. I took a heaping swig of whiskey that burned down my throat and lit a cigarette with the familiar flick of a Zippo flame. Leaning back in my chair, every muscle in my body sagged in defeat. It was time to unchain the tiger locked deep within me, even if doing so meant facing a brutal emotional carnage in the aftermath.

After a long, measured drag from my cigarette, I finally broke the silence. “Where do I start?”

My father drew a deep, steadying breath—a silent plea for honesty—and fixed me with a gaze that was as sharp and tender as it was determined. With arms folded and a patience that had worn thin with worry, he simply said, “Start from the beginning.”

****

It was the summer of my senior year at San Diego State University—a time when everything seemed aligned with destiny. I was the star running back for the football team and a business major with a clear vision for my future. Life, as I saw it then, was an unstoppable train set firmly on its tracks.

Just weeks earlier, I had nervously yet confidently proposed to Henley, the woman who had captivated my heart for two unforgettable years. Henley was not only breathtakingly beautiful, but also fiercely compassionate. Pursuing her bachelor’s in special education, she dedicated herself to a noble calling—to help children with special needs, a vocation inspired by the love and challenges surrounding her younger brother, Curtis, who was born with autism. Watching her selflessly embrace every challenge made me admire qualities in her that I often felt I lacked.

As an engagement gift, my father surprised us with a picturesque cottage perched on the edge of the beach. I still remember the day we first arrived—the way the golden afternoon light spilled over the quaint structure, and how Henley’s radiant smile sparkled against the backdrop of towering, metallic blue Pacific waves. Her smile was as mesmerizing as a meteor shower igniting the night sky, filling the room with a promise of wonder. We were, in all our youthful passion, two souls reveling in the intoxicating sensation of love, living each moment with the belief that we were the only two people in the vast, unruly world.

Despite the whispers and well-meaning advice from friends, teammates, and family concerned that I was rushing into things, I stood firm in my convictions. “Slow down,” they urged, insisting that marriage and life's milestones would come in due time. But I was twenty-two, and my path was already charted—with Henley by my side, a promising degree on the horizon, and a dream to conquer the NFL. Nothing, they said, would derail my destiny. And at that moment, nothing could shake my resolve.

The future shimmered before us like a series of mirrored reflections—each a funhouse distortion of our past, present, and the infinite possibilities ahead. Every heartbeat echoed the promise of what was to come, and though we were as impulsive and headstrong as any young lovers might be, our journey was destined to leave an indelible mark on our lives.

****

The fall semester of my senior year arrived in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The initial thrill of our engagement and that charming beach house had faded like the remnants of a summer sunset, replaced by the unyielding weight of reality. Coach had been riding us hard all summer—three-a-day practices so grueling that even the slightest misstep was met with his steely glare. His fixation on beating Fresno State—the Bulldogs who had snatched victory from our grasp with a last-second field goal the previous year—had transformed him into a man with bared fangs, ready to tear into any sign of slack.

Every day on the field was a battle against the clock and the memory of that agonizing loss. The coach’s voice roared through the air, “We’re not here to play—it’s time to win!” His words dripped with intensity, as if the honor of our team depended on the pain we willingly endured. And pain we did, day after day, as the tides of sweat and determination ebbed and flowed through our bodies.

That final month of grueling training was a test of nerve and physical limits. I was caught between preparing for my last season of college football and the relentless ticking clock of my impending draft year. At the same time, Henley was diving headfirst into wedding planning. I’d watch her meticulously pore over every detail, her methods as precise and calculating as a cheetah closing in on its prey. “We need to book the photographer by next week,” she’d say, a determined glimmer in her eye. I admired her dedication, even though it made our lives feel like a constantly ticking clock, each moment accounted for.

I, on the other hand, moved with a more laissez-faire rhythm. I stayed organized when juggling school, football, and our relationship—but much like a week’s pile of laundry overflowing the hamper, I let things accumulate until they reached a breaking point. Henley was the lid to this unruly collection, the force that kept me from letting everything spill over. Yet, even her precision couldn’t always shield me from the chaos I internalized.

One sultry afternoon, after an exhausting practice session under the blaze of a ninety-eight-degree sun, I slipped into the weight room for one last, desperate attempt to squeeze in a workout. The lingering heat still clung to me, mixing with fatigue and a gnawing emptiness in my stomach—I’d forgotten to eat my trusty protein bar. I sank under the weight of the bench press, struggling to lift two hundred and ten pounds—my own body weight—barely managing ten reps. I could feel every fiber of muscle protesting, a deep, unsettling dread creeping over me.

“Damn it,” I muttered to myself, beads of sweat blurring my vision. The iron clanged down, harsh and accusing, as if shouting, “You’re not ready, not yet!” I paused, trying to catch my breath, my heart pounding in a frantic rhythm that echoed the pressure building in my mind. Something was off, and I hated that vulnerability.

The weight room, once my sanctuary against inner doubts, now felt like an arena under a spotlight, every watchful gaze magnifying my faltering strength. I gripped the bar for one more rep, determined to silence that persistent whisper in my ear, “You’re slipping.” In that charged moment, a surge of resolve flooded through me. I had to push harder—not just for the looming showdown with the Bulldogs or my NFL dreams, but for myself. Every victory, every triumph, hinged on not letting this moment be marred by the shadows of uncertainty. I refused to be defined by this weakness.

With grim resolve, I stepped back and wiped away the sweat that blurred my vision. I recalibrated my focus; there was no turning back now. The stakes were sky-high—a delicate juggle of passion, duty, and relentless pressure demanding nothing less than my absolute best. As I exited the weight room and the heavy doors thudded shut behind me, I stepped into the fading daylight, my mind already ablaze with the battles ahead.

After a quick, steaming shower designed to wash away the lingering stench of failure from what felt like a piteous workout, I returned to the locker room. There, one of my teammates—a hulking defensive linebacker known as Joel “Shit Brick” Duffer—strolled over like a force of nature. Towering at six-foot-six and built like a brick wall, Joel's sheer presence on the field was enough to send opposing quarterbacks running for cover. His nickname wasn’t given lightly.

“I saw you in the weight room earlier,” Joel rumbled, his voice gravelly as he peeled off his drenched gym clothes. He tossed them haphazardly into the chaotic mess of his locker—a cesspool of sweat-soaked fabrics and forgotten dreams. “You looked a little distraught.”

Distraught? Really? My mind reeled for a moment. Here was a man whose vocabulary usually consisted of a handful of crude words—‘fuck, shit, ass, bitch, and cunt’—now using a finely tuned expression to describe my demeanor. His unexpected polish caught me off guard.

“Not distraught,” I replied cautiously, trying to mask the sting of his observation. “Just a little overworked from today’s practice. I think.”

Joel’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he smirked. “I got something that may just pull your bitch ass out of that tired-ass funk.”

Classic Joel—always the jester, always surprising. My heart skipped as I glanced up, trying to avert my eyes from the undeniable display of his raw, masculine physique now on full view. “Yeah?” I asked, my voice laced with curiosity and a hint of amusement. “What do you recommend?”

With a flourish, Joel unzipped his gym bag and produced a small vile filled with a thick, yellow liquid. “What is it?” I asked, peering at the bottle. I had a hunch about its identity but didn’t want to sound like an idiot if I was wrong.

“That there is liquid gold,” Joel replied, deadpan. “Shit, they give it to race horses. Guaranteed to have motherfuckers shittin’ their pants.”

His words echoed in the charged silence, a bizarre mix of humor and raw confidence. The vial in his hand seemed to pulse with potential—the kind of elixir that might jolt a weary spirit back into action. As I accepted the vial with a nervous chuckle, the absurdity of our world mingled with the intensity of our shared struggle. This was more than just a remedy for physical fatigue; it was a rallying cry to rise above the relentless pressure of our lives, both on and off the field.

That moment, wrapped in the bizarre banter and surreal camaraderie of the locker room, ignited something within me. With Joel’s liquid gold in hand, I was ready to face the next challenge—my doubts, the Bulldogs, and the inevitable clash between passion and pressure head-on.

“Steroids,” I repeated slowly, eyes locked on the vial as my heart pounded fiercely against my chest. The idea was both electrifying and terrifying—a potent mix of promise and peril. I’d read about their astonishing, performance-altering benefits, but I also knew the long-term damage they wrought. Up until now, I'd only been a social drinker, with my dalliance with drugs limited to a couple of times with pot. The notion of injecting myself with what could essentially be poison—even if it meant transcendent results—made me wary.

“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t think it’s for me,” I said cautiously, returning the vial to Joel.

“Suit yourself,” he replied, a flicker of chagrin softening his usual rough tone.

“Look, I really do appreciate the thought,” I continued, my voice steady but edged with reluctance. “I just don’t think it’s the best route for me to go.”

Joel chuckled, a low rumble that carried a teasing note. “I get it—you scared. Nothing to be ashamed of. You’ve been holding your own these past three years, so maybe you think you don’t need it.”

His words dripped with condescension, as though he were dangling a succulent pork chop right in front of a starving dog. And then he leaned in, his eyes alight with a mixture of mischief and earnestness. “But check it: this is senior-motherfucking-year.” In one swift move, he retrieved a fresh syringe from his gym bag and plunged it into the vial’s rubber stopper. “You should be looking to secure any extra advantage you can get. There’s no telling what the future has in store. Maybe it ain’t the NFL after all. You feel me?”

His blunt yet persuasive tone forced me to reconsider a reality I’d never allowed myself to entertain—the possibility of not being drafted. Whether it was arrogance or naive optimism, I’d always believed I was destined for greatness. With Henley by my side, failure wasn’t even an option.

My stomach churned as my gaze fixed on Joel’s face contorting with a mix of determination and defiance. In a swift, almost ritualistic gesture, I watched him plunge the needle into his right buttock, injecting a generous dose of his “liquid gold” directly into his bloodstream. The scene was both raw and disconcerting in its intensity.

Curiosity finally broke through my hesitation. “How often do you have to do that?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Joel’s smirk deepened, as if he relished the moment of having me exactly where he wanted. “You inject 2cc’s three times a week to start,” he replied matter-of-factly, disposing of the needle and syringe into a small, red biohazard container—eerily reminiscent of a doctor’s office. “Then after two weeks, you bump it up to 4cc’s. That’s when it really takes hold of you. You turn into a real-life Jolly Green Giant. Nobody’s gonna dare mess with you.”

My mind raced as I took in his words. “If I was interested—and I’m not saying I am—but if I was, where…?”

Before I could finish, Joel produced another brand new vial of liquid gold from his gym bag—the man was like a walking pharmacy. The sight sent another jolt through my system, my heart once again speeding up at the thought of gaining an edge that might deliver me the best season of my college career.

“How much do I owe you?” I ventured hesitantly.

“This one’s on the house,” he replied with a wry grin, handing me a few fresh packets of needles and syringes. “But the next one will cost your ass two bills.”

The mention of two hundred dollars made my heart sink—a red flag that would undoubtedly trigger one hell of an investigation by Henley into my spending habits.

“I’ll just do it this one time,” I muttered, the conflict of desire and caution swirling inside me.

Joel’s chuckle was knowing, as if he’d heard that very response from countless souls before. “Sure. One time,” he said, gathering his towel and small bag of toiletries from his locker. “If you say so.”

With that, Joel headed off toward the showers, leaving me standing in the dwindling light of the locker room. I watched him go, then turned my attention back to the vial in my hand. My heart rate slowly returned to its normal rhythm as the gravity of the decision began to sink in. After a long moment of contemplation, I stealthily stowed the vial and syringes into my backpack. With a final deep breath, I exited the locker room, stepping into the unknown future with the weight of my choices heavy on my shoulders—and the promise of an edge that might just tilt the scales in my favor on and off the field.

****

That night, sleep proved elusive—more a series of fitful naps than rest. I lay awake in our dimly lit bedroom, my eyes tracing the ornate curves of the vaulted ceiling overhead, while Henley, sound asleep, nestled her head against my chest. My mind churned with the weight of impending choices, every advantage and disadvantage measured in the silent darkness. Over and over, one thought surged forward: Henley. I longed to do right by her—to grant her the lifestyle she had long been denied. The mere possibility of failing her filled me with a nauseating dread.

Henley had grown up far too soon. Raised by a single mother who juggled two jobs merely to keep the family afloat, she was forced to become both a nurturing mother and a protective older sister to her younger brother. The carefree trappings of childhood had been a luxury she never knew. All too often, I envisioned a future where Henley was free to pursue her passions, unburdened by financial stress. The stakes were personal.

Yet, reality loomed with its own harsh demands. I knew that my recent performances—both in practice and on the field—would decide more than just my chance at being a first-round draft pick. My senior year was a crucible; faltering now would prove to NFL owners that I was too unpredictable, too prone to cracking under pressure, rendering me a gamble no team could afford. The time for hesitation was over. My mind hardened with resolve: I had to secure both my future and Henley’s.

Gently, I eased Henley’s head onto her pillow. With a soft farewell to the warmth of her slumber, I slipped silently from the bed and made my way to the bathroom. The air in there felt thick with anticipation. In my backpack, I retrieved the vial and syringe—the instruments of a desperate gamble. I shut the door behind me, isolating myself in a moment that would alter both our lives.

Methodically, I gripped the vial and detached the syringe. With steady hands, I pressed the needle against the rubber stopper and extracted exactly 2cc’s of what I could only call liquid gold. I flicked the side of the syringe gently, as I had seen Joel do countless times before. A few fine droplets of the clear fluid trickled down the barrel, ensuring that no air bubbles clung within, and forming a slick, perfect layer along the sides—a silent promise that this act would be as precise as it was necessary.

I then lowered one side of my boxer shorts, exposing my right buttock. With a swab of rubbing alcohol, I meticulously cleansed the planned injection site. My heart thundered in my ears as I brought the needle within mere millimeters of bare skin. Time seemed to slow as I took deep, shuddering breaths, eyes locked on the glistening droplets descending onto my flesh. The cool taste of anxiety filled my mouth, each second stretching on indefinitely.

Finally, with a focused resolve that left no room for doubt or regret, I plunged the sharp metal stake deep into my posterior. In that moment, as the fluid coursed into me, I understood that every risk—it was all for us. The pulse in my veins, the heightened awareness of every second, and the intimate bond with my purpose seemed to merge into one relentless surge of determination. I could only hope that in this transient pain lay the promise of a brighter, secure future for Henley and me, a future crafted by desperate courage and the relentless drive to transcend everything I once believed about my limits.

****


Two weeks after the first injection, everything in my life was on overdrive. With every practice, I felt a powerful clarity coursing through me—as if I had been granted superhuman speed and strength. I could outstrip my teammates in a heartbeat, darting past them with an explosive burst of energy that I never knew I possessed. Even my studies began to show a remarkable transformation. Concentration and vigor, long dormant since my freshman days, were back, making every evening with Henley a roaring celebration of life.

Joel hadn’t been exaggerating when he promised the drug would morph me into a real-life “Hulk”. In just fourteen days, I had added fifteen pounds of dense, lean muscle, dropped my body fat by two percentage points, and was bench-pressing nearly double my body weight. With every surge of newfound strength came a hyperawareness of my body’s reaction—a relentless adrenaline-fueled vitality that manifested in intense, lingering arousal.

One evening after practice, emboldened by the thrill of my transformation, I arrived home bearing a dozen pink roses—Henley’s favorite—as a symbol of my gratitude and desire to share my success with her. With a confident smile, I swept her up in my arms and carried her into our bedroom. That night, passion exploded between us in a way that defied description. Our lovemaking was raw and intense, an unbridled symphony of sweat, desire, and ecstasy that stretched on for two unbroken hours. When we finally collapsed, the room—our entire house—looked as though it had weathered the aftermath of a post-apocalyptic storm.

For an entire week following, an odd mélange of hot mayonnaise and motor oil clung stubbornly to every room, a vivid reminder of our feverish intimacy. Henley’s prized Yankee Candle collection—six candles in all—had to be lit in rapid succession just to expunge the stubborn scent.

One quiet night after another of our passionate marathons, I found myself lying awake in the dark, staring blankly at the ceiling. Henley, with her gorgeous hazel eyes that always seemed to see right through me, caught me in my reverie. Her warm hand drifted to the center of my chest, her soft voice breaking the silence.

"Something’s on your mind," she murmured, her fingers gentle against the fabric of my shirt. "I can always tell when something's wrong."

She was right. Beneath the veneer of superhuman strength and unyielding desire, my body was beginning to betray signs of exhaustion. It wasn’t the aftermath of our prolonged rendezvous; it was something else—something that had crept up ever since my steroid cycle had ended three days ago. The effect was stark: where once I had felt invincible, now a deep-seated depletion gnawed at the edges of my vigor. Over the course of the four-week cycle, my body had swelled like a balloon inflated to its limit—and now, as if someone had released the knot, the air was escaping, leaving me deflated and on edge.

Gone was the heady high of unstoppable energy. In its place, I could see witness to the cost of my ascension: all that hard-earned progress, the supercharged physical form, and the record-breaking season—four years into my career, already boasting nine hundred yards and twelve touchdowns—was slipping away. Something in me was evolving, transforming me into a man exuding confidence and unyielding focus, yet with a shadow of inevitable loss lurking behind every triumph.

Even now, I carried a secret that threatened to shatter the delicate balance of our shared life. I was engaged to Henley, destined to share every joyous moment and dark secret with her. But how could I explain this dangerous, illicit edge? These steroids—a potent drug with devastating potential, and, most crucially, illegal in the U.S.—were my clandestine ally. Henley, in all her love and concern, would never understand, and I couldn’t bear to burden her with this haunting truth.

Each day, I wavered on that razor’s edge: intoxicated by the power surge yet teetering on the brink of irreversible collapse. The world, it seemed, demanded a high price for greatness, and I was caught in the relentless tension between the thrill of triumph and the terror of losing everything I held dear.

Henley's eyes searched mine from beneath the soft glow of our bedside lamp, a tender yet piercing look laden with unspoken concern. "Sweetheart?" she whispered, propping herself up on her elbow, her voice gentle but insistent. "You gonna answer me?"

I forced a smile as I shifted, rolling out of bed. "I'm fine," I mumbled, my tone curt and dismissive. Inside, my nerves crackled with agitation—my mind racing to concoct another half-truth. By morning, I’d need to explain away the two hundred dollars that would vanish from our bank account, a casualty of my next reckless withdrawal.

"Look, just shut off the light and go to bed," I snapped, the harshness in my voice clashing with the tender confusion painting her face. "I'll be back in a minute."

Without waiting for a response, I slipped into the cool predawn darkness and made my way to the kitchen. The sound of the faucet echoed in the empty room as I turned it on, splashing cold water across my face—a fleeting attempt to jolt my thoughts into clarity. Standing at the sink, I pressed my forehead against the cool tile and stared out the window. The full moon bathed the restless ocean in a shimmering silver glow, its light catching on the crashing waves like shards of broken promises.

In that moment, a searing thought resurfaced, one that chilled me with its raw truth: Joel—ever the unyielding, unorthodox mentor with his infinite, unapologetic wisdom—had been right. I was entangled in this dangerous game, and like him, I was destined to return.

****

Another two weeks swept by, and I was already deep in the second cycle—more formidable than ever before. Energy, confidence, and determination surged within me. I’d upped the dosage to 6cc’s three times a week, and I was rapidly morphing into an unstoppable force. I was down to a mere one percent body fat and tipping the scales at 245 pounds of pure, unadulterated, All-American muscle. To ride the relentless high of adrenaline and perpetual muscle pumps, I spent an extra two hours each night at the gym after practice. More often than not, I’d return home to find Henley passed out on the couch, her head resting against the dim light, while dinner waited for me—a neatly wrapped plate tucked in the refrigerator, ready for a quick microwave fix.

The nights became endless, filled with the pounding pulse of excitement and dreams of an undefeated season. I could almost hear the roar of the crowd as I envisioned hoisting the Heisman trophy. But amidst that fervor, our intimate moments waned. The exhaustion of late-night workouts had stolen our sex life away, a sacrifice I rationalized as collateral damage to reach peak performance. Fitness had morphed into an all-consuming addiction, one that the steroids only intensified—dangerous and undeniable.

One humid evening, as the steam of my post-workout shower still clung to my skin, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror. I was mid-flex, admiring the sculpted lines of my arms, when the door creaked open. Henley appeared, leaning against the frame, her eyes shadowed with hurt. Her voice cut through the haze of dewy warmth. “So, this is what has replaced me?”

I turned slowly, confusion etching my features. “I’m sorry?” I managed, the question hanging in the charged air.

Her gaze, steady and brimming with unspoken pain, said it all. “Your sudden obsession with your body,” she accused softly, yet each word stung like a slap. “It’s the reason I barely see you anymore. It’s the reason we’ve sidestepped every talk about the wedding. And it’s the reason we haven’t fucked in nearly three weeks.”

The words hit me like a cold splash of reality. Henley didn’t squander curses or use harsh language unless she was truly distraught—a rarity that marked moments of unfiltered truth. I took a step forward, my pulse thundering as I reached out slowly, placing one hand on each of her shoulders. The rough texture of muscle met the soft, trembling skin of someone who once believed in us, someone who was slipping away into the quiet despair of neglect.

“Henley,” I murmured, my voice low and laden with regret. “I… I didn’t realize. I thought this was just part of the grind, part of the journey to greatness.” The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the unspoken acknowledgment of sacrifices made, dreams pursued, and love slowly eroding beneath the weight of ambition.

In that raw and naked moment, the pulsating rhythm of my own heartbeat clashed with the aching silence between us—a silence that demanded answers, reforms, and the painful recognition that, somewhere along the way, I had lost her.

“Sweetheart, I told you: I’m just focused on the rest of the season. You know you’re the most important thing in the world to me, and I would never lie to you.” I kissed her softly on the lips, as I moved past her into the bedroom. She stood there with her arms folded, and a look in her eye that said: “Liar!”

“What really happened to the two hundred dollars from our savings account, Miles?” I had told Henley that I paid a classmate—Paxton Myers—two hundred bucks to tutor me in trigonometry for the rest of the semester.

“I told you what happened,” I replied, pulling up my boxer shorts—my back shamefully facing Henley.

“Oh really, Miles?” she said, storming over to me, making sure I saw the anger and betrayal in her eyes. “Because I ran into Paxton today, and well, he said he didn’t have the faintest idea what I was talking about. He said you never mentioned anything about having him tutor you.”

My mind searched frantically for the next lie, as my blood began to boil over with sudden rage. I felt like a caged animal being backed into a corner with nowhere to go, and the only way to freedom was to pounce on my captor.

“Well, Paxton’s a fucking liar,” I said, crossing to the dresser, grabbing for the first T-shirt and pair of athletic shorts I laid my eyes on. Anything that would get me fully clothed so I could scramble my way out the door and end this slow building typhoon of obscenities, accusations and lies that were about to erupt. I didn’t want to lie to Henley anymore, but I needed time to think of a way to make her understand that what I was doing was okay, and that I had it under control and could stop at anytime. I just had to finish this last cycle, which would carry me through to the end of the season.

“Really, Miles?” You’re going to stand there and lie to my face, and tell me that
Paxton is the liar?”

“Yeah, I am.”

Henley stood there in the center of the room, arms folded, brow furrowed, tapping her agitated foot against the floor. A volcano that had been dormant for too long was about ready to blow its top.

“You’re on drugs, aren’t you?” she asked.

My eyes widened with shock. I never thought that question or suspicion would have ever entered her mind. Yes, I had added twenty-five pounds of solid muscle to my already muscular frame, but I figured she would simply chalk it up to the extra time and effort I was putting into my training, not that I was somehow going behind her back and increasing my talent by means of illegal performance enhancing supplements. I was obviously being naïve.

“What exactly are you saying?” I asked.

“Please, as if I hadn’t noticed your rapid muscle gain, or your sudden obsession with late night workouts, or your new found admiration for your newly sculpted physique.”

Henley paced back and forth, tears welling the lids of her eyes. “How could you fucking lie like that? And for over a month?”

My hands trembled, as the guilt of my deception began to blend with my frustration toward her accusations. I was a grown ass man being scrutinized and interrogated like a small child, a child who had been caught in a web of lies and was about to be severely disciplined. I hated that feeling. It was the same way my father would speak to me when he attempted to uncover the truth when I was a child.

Guilty or not, there was no way I was going to give into her demands that I anticipated were about to be fired off in rapid succession. So, I slowed my breathing, as I went against my better judgment, and tried to explain to her my reasoning behind my decision to take the drugs.

“Look, sweetheart, I’m sorry. You’re right. I did lie to you.” I tenderly rubbed the sides of her arms, hoping to calm her a bit, staring deep into those beautiful hazel eyes of hers. But she wouldn’t look at me—her emotional state had reached maximum capacity, as tears flowed down her cheeks.

“My love, I’m doing this for us. I’m trying to secure our future. I figured you’d understand…” I began, my voice steady with a desperation I hoped she could feel. But before I could finish, Henley’s head lunged forward, her eyes aflame with a fury that cut through my words like shattered glass. Tears glistened in her eyes, but the rage behind them was impossible to ignore. I had never seen her so incandescent with anger—an emotion so fierce it forced me onto an immediate defensive posture. It was as if a barrage of searing fire had descended upon me, and I couldn’t determine which way to flee to avoid its destructive path.

“You didn’t do this for us, Miles!” she screamed, her words punctuating the charged air as she swiped the moisture from her face with the back of her hand. “You weren’t thinking about anything but yourself.”

Desperation mingled with disbelief as I tried to reason, reaching out to her, my fingertips seeking to smooth away the hurt. “That’s not true…” I stuttered, my hands trembling as they brushed against her soft, plump cheeks, as if hoping to restore some lost tenderness. But she jerked them away with a force that left no room for misunderstanding.

“You decided to cheat! That’s what you did,” she spat, her voice rising in pitch and fury. “You put your career, our future, and most importantly—your health—in jeopardy.”

A dark knot twisted in my stomach as I protested, “Sweetheart, nobody’s going to find out. I assure you—I know what I am doing.” My voice wavered between confidence and desperation, a fragile shield against the storm she whipped up around me.

“What if they do a random drug test, huh? Can you imagine the embarrassment that would cause us? For you? Your career would be over before it even begins!” Her words hammered against me, each syllable a blow that threatened to shatter the carefully constructed illusions of my ambition.

The air crackled with tension as my heart pounded in my ears. I abruptly turned away, my back rigid as I strode to the corner of the room, heat flooding my skin so intensely I could almost feel it crawling. Every step was heavy with resentment and regret, the room shrinking under the weight of our discord.

“For Christ’s sakes, Miles, what would your mother think?” she challenged, each word dripping with both sorrow and scorn.

At the mention of my mother’s name, something in me snapped. My eyes flared open wide, incandescent with a raw, unbridled rage. How dare she evoke the memory of someone so sacred and irreplaceable? My mother had passed away the previous year after a relentless, two-year battle with breast cancer. Her loss was a wound that time hadn’t yet healed—a void that had driven me to achieve greatness, to make her proud. I knew she wouldn’t have approved of what I was doing, yet in my heart, I clung to the hope that she would have listened, that she would have at least tried to understand my point of view.

Standing there, caught between the searing anger of Henley and the bittersweet ache of memory, I felt the weight of every decision on my shoulders. The room pulsed with our conflict—a dangerous intersection of ambition, love, and blame. In that charged silence, I wondered if, in my quest for greatness, I had lost not only myself but the one person who truly mattered.

I whipped around, my face contorting into a twisted, ferocious glare as I glared at Henley. “Where do you get off bringing her into this?” I snarled, every muscle screaming in defiance.

Henley crossed her arms defensively, though her posture betrayed a trace of timidity. “I’m just trying to make you understand that what you’re doing isn’t okay,” she replied, her tone soft but laced with anguish.

I spat back, “I don’t give a shit. Don’t bring her up again. As a matter of fact, this conversation is over. You hear me? If I want to take steroids, I’m going to fucking take steroids—and I don’t want to hear any lectures about it.”

My fists clenched so hard that I could feel the skin straining like tissue paper. The steroids were flooding my bloodstream, my testosterone levels off the charts as fury pulsed through every vein. Tears welled in Henley’s eyes as she took a deep, shuddering breath before whispering, “Then I hope you and your drugs are happy together.”

In one swift, fluid motion, she slipped on her sandals, snatched her car keys off the dresser, and made for the front door. Rage surged within me—a searing, wrenching betrayal that twisted my gut into knots. I charged after her. As Henley opened the door, I slammed it shut with a resounding bang. I seized her arms firmly, my eyes blazing as I stared her down.

“You’re not going anywhere, you hear me?” I roared. “I’m trying to do something beneficial for us—something that will secure a prosperous life together—and you’re just going to walk out? After everything we’ve been through?”

In that moment, Henley looked small and helpless, her anger evaporating into terror as I dragged her back to the center of our darkened living room.

“Miles, you’re scaring me,” she shrieked, her voice trembling. “You’re hurting my arms. Let go of me.”

The realization that my grip was like a vice hadn’t fully dawned on me. “Then stay,” I coldly declared. “I’ll let you go if you stay.”

“Not if you keep doing drugs,” Henley shot back, her voice laced with despair.

I let out a bitter laugh. “Look at the person they’ve turned you into,” she shouted. “This is not the person I agreed to spend the rest of my life with.”

“This is who I am now!” I declared. “I love how they make me feel. Don’t you get that?”

“Good,” she shouted, the words dripping with venom. “I’m glad. Keep doing them then.”

In one impulsive, fateful moment, she broke free from my grasp and bolted for the front door. Before I could think or rein in my own strength, I yanked her arm with such force that she was yanked backward—her body hoisted into the air as if caught in a violent gust. The world slowed for an agonizing moment before her head smacked against the corner of the wooden coffee table with a deafening “Whack!”

The color drained from my face as I stood rooted to the spot, staring in horror at her motionless form sprawled across the living room floor. Panic surged as I rushed to her side, scooping her into my arms. I sank onto the cold floor, gently brushing the strands of hair away from her face while tears blurred my vision. I cried out her name repeatedly, desperate pleas to rouse her, but she remained silent and still.

Swallowing hard, I inched my shaky index finger toward the side of her neck, bracing myself for the truth I dreaded. My heart shattered as I confirmed what I feared—there was no pulse.

Cradling her in my arms, I rocked her slowly, kissing her forehead and whispering apologies into the silence. I pleaded with her to come back, promising that the drugs meant nothing—that I would stop and everything could return to the way it once was. But even as the words left my lips, I knew deep down it was a hollow promise. Henley—my love—was gone, swallowed by my own savage selfishness, and nothing I said could change that outcome.

I sat there, holding her close for one agonizing minute longer, the weight of my loss pressing down on me, before I finally dialed the police—with a trembling heart and a soul left in ruins.

****

I could see the shock etched on his face as he stared at me, eyes clouded with disbelief. I stubbed out my tenth cigarette, the smoke curling lazily in the dim light. My father struggled to swallow the horror of what I was about to reveal—his version of events had always been that I’d come home after practice to find Henley lying innocently on the living room floor. I had lied, claiming she’d tripped in the dark while fumbling for the lamp switch, just as she’d done before.

Now, I knew what he was thinking: his only son—a man once full of promise—was nothing more than a coward. And, in his eyes, he might well be right. I was a monster who had killed his fiancée and spun a web of lies around it. But tonight, as raw truth demanded its reckoning, I could no longer hide. I was here to finally confess, to give Henley’s death the justice it deserved.

“There you have it,” I said, lighting a fresh cigarette with trembling hands. “That’s the story. The whole goddamn truth about that night—I killed Henley.”

My father’s hands clenched into an interlaced knot as he bowed his head, his gaze fixed on the scuffed floorboards. I took a drag of my Camel Light, watching him struggle for words—a response that would somehow encompass the enormity of my confession. After a long, heavy pause, he lifted his eyes and asked quietly, “Miles, how long are you going to keep doing this to yourself?”

I blinked in bewilderment, swilling a gulp of whiskey. “What the hell are you talking about?” I demanded. “Doing what to myself?”

“Miles…” he began, voice soft yet edged with sorrow. “Henley died in a car crash. Two years ago.”

The words sparked beads of sweat along my brow. Rage and confusion welled inside me as I glared at him, anger boiling over. How could he twist my shattered confession into another cruel mind game, especially when I had just bared my soul with a tale of deception, betrayal, and murder? I leaned forward, my stare searing and my tone laced with venom. “How the hell can you sit there and fill my head with that bullshit? Henley is dead—because of me. I killed her. Last month, in our home. That’s what happened. That’s the whole truth.”

He shook his head, disbelief mingling with pity as he tried to process my words. My mind raced—was I not speaking clearly? Was the harsh reality failing to add up? Fury, raw and relentless, surged through me like a dark tide; a fury I hadn’t felt since that fateful night.

Then, unexpectedly, my father’s eyes softened. There was a flicker of tenderness there, a plea to reach me beyond the storm of my own guilt. “Miles,” he said gently, “I want you to listen to me this time. I need you to let what I’m about to say sink in, okay?”

I took another long swig of whiskey and sank back into the worn chair, arms folded defensively as I forced every ounce of concentration upon him. My voice, though heavy with the weight of my confession, was steady as I replied, “I’m listening.”

In that quiet moment, the room pulsated with unspoken memories and the bitter tang of regret—a fragile space where the truth, with all its jagged edges, was forced into the open.

My father drew a deep breath, his eyes glinting with that peculiar mix of conviction and delusion as he prepared to recount his twisted tale. “That night when you and Henley had your big blowout—” he began, his voice low and deliberate, “you grabbed her by the arms, trying to stop her from leaving.”

I almost spat out a laugh. Really? “No shit, Sherlock—I just told you that,” I thought, my inner monologue laced with disbelief.

But he wasn’t finished. “However, you didn’t throw her onto the table, as you claim,” he insisted, his tone growing more animated. “It wasn’t you that smashed the lamp. Henley grabbed the lamp off the inn’s table and swung it, hitting you over the head. That’s when you crashed into the coffee table.”

My pulse began to quicken. Anger and incredulity surged within me, and every instinct screamed at me to tell him to shut up. His story was a cacophony of falsehood, a twisted remix of facts I knew by heart. Yet, against all reason, something in my mind stirred—a faint, echoing resonance with these very details. Like fragments of an old, shattered mirror slowly realigning, my memory began to murmur its own secrets.

I held a silent nod, a tentative invitation for him to continue.

“After Henley stormed out of the house,” he said, his voice softening yet laden with an eerie finality, “she called me on her cell. She asked if we could meet up for coffee. She mentioned that you and she had this massive fight, and she needed someone to unravel what had happened with you.” His eyes flickered darkly as he recalled the words. “But on her way to the coffee shop—her last desperate dash for clarity—a drunk driver slammed through a red light and struck the driver’s side of her car. Just like that, she was gone.”

The air around me tightened. My face contorted in a mix of panic and disbelief as the jagged shards of my memory began to coalesce painfully into a mosaic of truth. It was all too eerie, too perfect— every detail I had known, every vivid recollection of that fateful night aligning with this grim narrative. My mind reeled with the impossibility of it all. How could these recollections, these tortured memories of heated arguments and heartbreaking violence, be anything other than the truth?

I felt the tension coil in my chest as my father’s words echoed in the silence between us, each syllable cutting deeper than the last. His voice, once dismissive and mocking, now dripped with the weight of a shared regret and sorrow—an accusation of fate itself. And as I stood there, caught between the faded fragments of my past and the undeniable horror of his tale, my inner world wavered on the edge of certainty and doubt, leaving me to wonder if this was all part of a narrative too twisted to ever be untangled.

“I don’t understand. How could that be the truth?” I asked, my voice raw in the dim light of the room.

My father’s eyes softened, though his tone carried the weight of hard truths. “Because—for the past two years—you’ve been consumed by guilt for what happened to Henley. You blamed yourself for her death, and you still do. But it’s time to let go, son—to move on from this and finally accept the reality of your world.”

I reached for another cigarette, my hand trembling as the flood of horrific memories hit me. In that moment, the final fragment of my shattered memory fell into place like the final piece of a puzzle, unraveling with the force of a runaway freight train.

I took a long, concentrated drag, the smoke swirling in front of my eyes, and murmured, “I did kill somebody, though. Just wasn’t Henley.”

A slow, knowing nod from my father confirmed the hidden truth in my words. My throat grew dry as I whispered, “I killed myself, didn’t I? That’s why we’re here.”

His eyes flickered with reluctant understanding. “You were so tormented by her death that you shut yourself inside for a month. You missed the last three games of the season. Night after night, you drowned your pain in liquor until one moment, one night, it all became too much—”

“I shot myself,” I finished, the confession like a stone dropping into an abyss.

He nodded solemnly. “For the past two years, you’ve replayed a fictionalized version of events—a twisted narrative where you bear the blame for Henley’s death. Your mind and soul are trapped, Miles. Unless you forgive yourself, you’ll remain imprisoned in this room forever.”

“How can I just forget what I did and pretend nothing happened?” I pleaded, my eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Son,” he said gently, “forgiveness is not about erasing the past. It means acknowledging that the offense happened and, despite it, choosing to forgive.”

I let his words sink in as I took another long drag. The smoke curled upward, mingling with the murky green of the wall behind him. To my astonishment, that sickly green morphed into a fiery, blood-red-orange, a living tapestry of my inner torment. The swirling smoke drifted over my father’s head and then engulfed him, leaving only the ghost of his presence—a fading echo in the recesses of my fractured mind. Now, I sat alone at the table, encircled by an inferno of memories and regret.

Suddenly, a piercing stream of white light burst through the small window in the door, so bright it felt almost accusatory. In that radiant beam, I realized it demanded a choice—a decision defining my fate. Would I step through that door and embrace an eternity of blissful contentment, or wallow in the endless cycle of self-torment I had crafted over these two agonizing years?

The colossal flames of my inner fire grew ever more feverish as the white light began to fade. With a final drag, I extinguished my cigarette on the table and rose from my seat. Approaching the door, I extended a trembling hand to the rusted handle, pausing as if weighing the cost of my next move. For me, turning that handle meant more than just opening a door—it meant accepting that I had irreparably fractured my future with Henley, that I had destroyed what we might have shared.

Could I live with that truth? Could I finally accept my actions, forgive myself, and step into that unknown realm on the other side—a place where perhaps, someday, I might find her again?

I stood there, hand on the cold, rusted metal, as time itself seemed to pause. The answer lay beyond the door, a whisper of possibility amidst the roaring flames of my past. And so, with a deep, resolute breath, I prepared to step forward, knowing only that time would reveal if I could ever truly be free.