The gravel and dirt are colder and rougher than the kitchen floor, but I'll be on the grass soon enough. Its kinda funny, now that I think about it, about that grass. I don't think I've set foot on any kind of field in near sixteen years, not since I lost the rights to this jersey keeping me warm. 1994 was my sophomore year in high school, and I was already varsity football. Classmates, teammates, coaches, they all knew me by the same name, Thunderlegs, I barely had a real name in high school sophomore year. They called me Thunderlegs after my first practice freshman year, when I broke the town athletic record for the 40 yard dash by nearly two whole seconds, and then asked the coach for a re-do because I stumbled a little as I took that first step onto the 10 yard starting line; I stumble a little over a stump as I take that first step into the woods. First string running back in sophomore year, can you imagine how proud my dad was? They said I'd be in the NFL by the end of eleventh grade, set for life. I was unstoppable on the field, like rolling thunder, a real force of nature in my feet. Even now its all coming back to me as I roll out of the way of branches like the arms of linebackers, then I try to hop over a log and it all comes back to me.
"Help me..."
I can't believe I still hear that girl over the shooting pain in my knee, that old battle wound from sophomore year. The first thing I remember are those horrible sounds, the last sounds I heard in the first quarter of the Turkey Bowl against our rival school. The crack of a kneecap busting in half, the pop of tendons as they rip out of place, the dull thud of my own foot slamming against my stomach, and then blinding pain and pitch black. I sit down for a moment to nurse the old battle scar and shout out for the kid.
"Help me..."
Christ, she sounds even farther now, I've gotta get up and keep going, forget the damn pain. No matter how deep I go, I guess this kid is deeper in the forest, deeper and deeper, around where those teenagers must shoot up. Before junior year, before three years in crutches and a wheel chair, I didn't even know that you could get drugs in my quiet little town. I was hurting, bad. The doctors said it was all in my head, how could it be if I could feel it like this? Limp forward, towards the girls voice; its times like this when the old wounds act up that I remember why I made friends with Tommy in the first place. Tommy was a college dropout who learned just enough chemistry to mix up something illegal, some white powders and yellow crystals that looked like rock candy, I'd never even seen drugs like that before. Tommy told me they were expensive, but they were the only drugs in town, the only drugs anyone could ever get in this town, that fucking liar. Thorny branches stick through the sleeve into my arm, I'm surprised I can even feel them stab me after all those pricks I had to deal with. What do you know, even after two years of detox and rehab, I ended up dealing with even more pricks every day.
"Help me..."
She's gotta be closer, she's gotta be. I have to save this girl, I just have to, its all I have left.
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