Midnight for the Broken by Michael Roux Read Free Book Online Page B

Still, there's silence. My body tingles with vigor and emotion, but there's no emotion inside of me to grasp; life wasn't meant to feel so empty. Staring at the screen doesn't do me any good, so I make my music louder than normal and take a swipe at my dummy. The blow sends it firmly against my door and shakes the wall. I feel a little better. I leap toward it and strike it again, then again, then a hundred more times. I'm feeling better. The screen is still dark. I beat the dummy over and over, and then start again.
    My head is clear and the empty screen taunts me, daring me to keep going. I beat the dummy in my room until the street lights outside my window burn like the emotion that's driving me to strike. I'm sweating now; it's the first time a workout has worn me out, but I keep going. The air is fresher, my lungs feel full, and my hands and legs flash with a speed that I’ve never known before. The longer the night goes, the more I find myself moving with the rage of the songs I listen to.
    I strike and blow, thinking I should stop, but my body wants more. I'm fighting the week and fighting the pain of the silent computer screen. No word from Jessica. No family. No friends to hang out with on a Friday night. I'm a freak locked in a hospital. I survive on pills and raw meat. No one cares about me, but they care about what I do, where I go and who I date.
    I collapse onto my bed, barely able to breathe, but the music plays on. I shut it off—the sounds are annoying me now—and look at the time. Three in morning. Ugh. I switch off the screen and go to sleep.
    Saturday, I'm energized. I wake up before my alarm and am one of the first at the hospital cafeteria. I wolf down my meal, extra pills and all, and then rush to the gym. Basketball. Normally I like to shoot around for a while before joining three-on-three pickup games, but today I feel like getting started right away. I jump into a game of older guys, infected Broken who are far more advanced in our shared condition. They are strong and tough and falling apart. One guy on my team, Glen, is missing half his face and two fingers on one hand. He's pretty good at balling though, and makes up for Steve, the tall guy we've got who can't even dunk.
    We lose the first game, my shot is off, but then I feel like taking the inside. The guys we’re playing are shoving Glen around like a rag doll.
    “I'm feelin' it,” I tell him. “Just feed me.”
    And he does. I'm bouncing around the court, moving like I'm fifteen again and shoving my opponent like he's not even there. That surprises him and he resorts to jabbing me in back with a bony elbow. I spin around him and dunk, crashing on top of him and yelling at the rafters.
    “Take that, bony,” I scream, flaunting my arms and flexing.
    The others laugh and bony tosses me into the wall on the next drive. I don't care. The pain feels good and so does the battle. At lunch, the staff forces us off the court to set up for a bingo tournament.
    The day feels fresh and I'm exhilarated from the sport and the chance to clear my mind. I hate living at the hospital, but it's good to be around people who don't call me names. While I'm sitting on my bed, contemplating the day, I realize that it's been twenty-four hours since I've seen the picture of me and Jessica. I hated that picture flashing on phones around me and staring me in the face around every corner at school. But as I'm sitting on my bed, it's all I can think about.
    I turn on my computer and open a chat session. “Are you there?” I ask.
    Silence.
    “I'm thinking about you,” I say, without waiting.
    “It's been a tough week. I needed you.”
    Still nothing, but I keep typing.
    “Hope you're okay.”
    I begin to key something else and the screen flickers. Jessica has checked in. I leap from my chair and wipe my hands dry on my jeans. There's an indication that she's typing something, but nothing comes. I wait. Then as quickly as she arrived, Jessica leaves the session