Playing His Own Games | ✔︎

chapter seven | ghosts of the past

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"Everyone can master a grief but he that has it."
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Mason

MY EYES ROAM THE LIVING room as I throw my feet up on the coffee table, scrolling through Instagram. My dad wanders in, Jared on his heels, all prepped up for his dumb basketball game.

"Do you mind?" he barks, tossing the television remote into my lap and lugging my feet off the table. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop being such a lazy bastard?"

I decide to play the safe road. Ever since Carrie assaulted me with a hockey stick a week ago I've tried to stay on everyone's safe side—expect Carrie. I've avoided her entirely, sitting with some other friends at lunch. "Too often."

He rolls his eyes and drops into the recliner with an exaggerated sigh. "Your brother wants to watch the game. Channel Ten."

"Sure." I switch the channel to a basketball game I don't care for. Hockey has been apart of my life ever since I could walk. I can distance myself from my pain and thoughts while I knock the puck around on the ice; can be a normal teenager. I couldn't let my dad take away something that means so much—so I didn't.

Jared pops open a can of Coke and slumps onto  the empty spot next to me. "I don't get why you don't play or even watch."

I snort, continuing to go on my phone. "Dude, you have to be a hell of a lot more skilled to play on the ice than a court."

He throws me a smirk just as a message pops up on the screen from a number I don't recognise. "Yeah but you don't play anymore."

I feel the world surge upwards and my lungs begin to close up as I read the message:

Hello Mason, this is Michael, your step-father. I'm awfully sorry to inform you that your mother has passed on due to some unfortunate circumstances. I also apologise for the last minute invitation but it took me some time to find your number. The funeral will be held in the church and cemetery at 12:30pm.

"I-I have to go," I mumble, my heart knocking wildly against my ribcage, my mind struggling to comprehend the news. It can't be happening. This can't be happening. She can't possibly be dead. She's never even sent a letter or texted me, let alone visit me. Why does my mother's goodbyes have to be so fucking tragical? "Just got offered another shift at work. Is it alright if I can go?" I can barley keep my voice steady.

My father glances up at me. "Just get out of my sight."

- - - -

I recognise people immediately as I pull up into the car park of the church. Mrs Bryant, my mother's best friend and the owner of the cake store, who used to sneak me around the back to decorate the cupcakes; Dexter MacDonald, the mechanic who took our car in for repairs and would flirt with my mother to the point where my father refused to go back; Mr and Mrs Patterson, the religious couple who came knocking on our door every Sunday in attempt to convert us. And then, to my astonishment, I spot my childhood best friend, Miles Wickrly.

For a moment, I feel like I've sunk back into the life when I was eight years old where the storm rattled the windows. Now I've been swept up into a tornado.

My chest squeezes as I turn off the ignition and slowly get out from the car, dragging my feet behind me. The black clothes and sorrowful expressions, the grieving friends and tear-stained faces, begin to make the situation feel much more real. My mind was clouded with fantasies when I received the message, never quite accepting or acknowledging the fact that my mother, the only person I have ever truly loved in my life, is no longer alive.