08.03 TOM – Depth of Silence Jul 16 at 06:00 – 00:30

No. I can't. I just can't.

I get up, slam my locker shut, and head outside. Stretching has already started, Jakub is going to be pissed. But I don't care. I'd rather listen to him yelling than my own thoughts.

When I step out into the hallway, I catch a glimpse of Viktor disappearing around the corner. His shoulders are slumped, as if he were carrying an invisible weight. And for a moment, just for a tiny moment, I want to run after him. I want to stop him. I want to tell him… what, actually? That I'm sorry? That I'm scared? That I don't know what to do with what I'm feeling?

Instead, I turn the other way and head outside. I do what I do best—run away. From him. From myself. From the truth.

But how much longer can I run? How long before that truth catches up to me?

“Záhoš!” Jakub yells when he sees me.

„Where the fuck have you been? We already started!“

„Sorry,“ I mutter and fall in line with the other guys.

Mára looks at me and leans in closer.

„Dude, what happened to you? You look like you've seen a ghost.“

“Nothing,” I shake my head. “I was just held up.”

“That creep, right?” Mára whispers, nodding toward Viktor, who’s standing on the other side. “Bothering you again?”

“No,” I say, sharper than I meant to. “Leave it.”

Mára raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. He just shrugs and turns back to the coach.

Jakub divides us into groups. I'm with Mára and Adam. Viktor is by himself. As always. And I can't help it, but I watch him out of the corner of my eye. I watch him stretch, prepare, how his body moves with that strange elegance he's always had.

And then I notice something I didn't see before. Or maybe just didn't want to see. On his side, just above the edge of his shorts, there's a bruise. A big, dark bruise that wasn't there a week ago.

A bruise in the shape of a fist. My fist.

I look away, but it's too late. That image has burned itself into my brain. The proof of what I've done. Of who I've become.

I step onto the track and let the air sink into my bones. I hope it blows away that guilt, that shame, that self-hatred. But nothing washes it away. Nothing changes.

Because the truth is, I hate myself more than anyone else. I hate myself for what I've done. For what I feel. For the fact that I can't even admit it to myself, let alone anyone else.

And so I run. I run as if my life depended on it. I run as if I could outrun my own thoughts. My own feelings. My own fear.

But I know I can't run away. Not really. Because no matter how much I run, swim, race as fast as I want, no matter how hard I try, the truth is still with me. It runs beside me. It waits for me to get tired. To stop. To stop fighting back.

And what happens then? What happens when I finally accept that truth?

I don't know. And that scares me the most.

I am sitting on the bank of the Vltava. My T-shirt is sticking to my back. It's soaked through with sweat, with tears, with the morning mist – I don't even know. Probably with all of it. The cold air is biting into my skin, but I don't feel it. I feel almost nothing, except for that heavy weight in my stomach.

The pinkish hue of dawn is coloring the water's surface in shades that I would otherwise consider pretty. Right now, it feels to me like even the water is angry. Restless. Like me. A few swans are sauntering along the bank, their beaks clacking against the stones. It seems to me like they're watching me, as if I were some kind of attraction.

„What are you staring at?“ I mutter.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and see „Beloved Mother“ on the screen. Romi. Mom. Not now. Just not now. I don’t want her to hear my voice right now. I reject the call and toss the phone onto a rock beside me. She probably already knows I’m not home. She probably already knows I didn’t come back. She probably already knows I’m screwed.

I pull a crumpled piece of paper from my jeans pocket. It's a note Jakub gave me after practice. On it, it says "Practice 18:00 – be on time." So simply. So clearly. So normally. As if nothing were happening. As if everything were fine. As if it weren't the end of everything.

I'm going to tear him into tiny little pieces. I can feel my hands shaking as I do it. Rage flooding into my fingers. But relief too. Because this is the end, right? Just the end.

I throw the pieces of paper into the water and watch as the current carries them away. They look like little white bones. Like the remains of something that died. Something I killed.

A railway bridge arches over my head. Its reflection in the water ripples, breaks, shatters. That's exactly how I feel. Broken. Fallen to pieces. And every one of those pieces hurts.