Breathe Me

Making my way from the car to the house is a difficult task in itself.

Kris leans against me sluggishly and I try desperately to support all of his weight against my small frame. I wrap both of my arms around his waist, trying not to collapse when he places his heavy arm around my shoulder and almost falls face forward. After he had finally calmed down in the car and I had driven us both home, he had been extremely quiet. My heart broke for him the whole time, and I could effortlessly feel the sorrow radiating from his sulky body.

“I feel sick” Kristopher whispers when we enter the house. I don't say anything, instead I help him up the stairs and into our room. I gently tug him into the ample bathroom, contemplating if I should leave him or not when his knees slap against the tiled floor in front of the toilet. I try to force myself to exit the bathroom, but I can't just leave him alone in such an atrocious state.

“It's okay” I kneel down behind him as he empties the contents of his stomach into the toilet. I rub his back reassuringly as I try to comfort him. He's finally done about 15 minutes later so I help him off of the floor and lead him to the sink. His trembling hands turn the knobs on the faucet and he splashes the cool water on his face, every now and then drinking some of the water, or just rinsing his mouth out.

“Feel better?” I ask softly.

He nods, “Oui”

My eyes widen when I notice the red liquid on his left hand, “Kris, you're bleeding”

I hastily grab the first aid kit from one of the cabinets, searching for the rubbing alcohol and the gauze. I get a wash cloth and soak it in warm water before gingerly placing it on knuckles. He hisses when I clean the blood away, revealing a sizeable gash going across four of his knuckles. I squirt a little rubbing alcohol on the cotton ball and clean off the wound as good as I can.

“What did you do?” I ask as I wrap his hand in the gauze.

“I got mad and punched a wall.” He answers meekly. I finish cleaning his wound up, and I put all of the supplies back in the first aid kit.

I trail behind him as he trudges into the bedroom, making sure that if he falls I'll be there to catch him, or at least attempt to keep him from hitting the floor. When he arrives to his side of the bed I help him peel off his t-shirt, my eyes scanning over his torso for a few seconds. There's a bruise the size of a softball on his rib cage from getting in a fight with Trevor Gillies a few games ago. My fingers gingerly touch the bruise, but he doesn't even notice. His hands are trembling terribly bad, and I'm suddenly aware that he's still crying. He curses angrily when he attempts to unbutton his jeans and flinches when I guardedly grab his hands and pull them away. I wordlessly unbutton his jeans and when I'm finished he tugs them down unabashedly. He starts to apologize copiously when he lies down on the bed, he apologizes for everything, even though none of it is his fault.

I sit next to him on the bed after I tug the comforter over his almost naked body. He looks up at me with those big brown eyes that are bloodshot and glossy from all of the alcohol and crying. I'm thankful that he's not an angry drunk who takes all of his emotions out on others.

“I never meant to be so mean to you, I feel so bad Sophie.” His hand sneaks out from underneath the blanket and his fingertips graze across my cheek, leaving a burning sensation behind.

My vision starts to swim, and his face becomes blurred. I want to be mad at him for yelling at me previously, but it's an impossible task, especially when he's in so much pain. The tears spill from my eyes, and slide down my cheeks. I'm not crying because I'm sad, I'm crying because I understand how he's feeling. It's that feeling of self-disgust mixed in with an immense quantity of depression, something that I have felt more than enough times in my life.

“You didn't mean to...” I whimper, “I was just scared... I-I thought you h-hated me.”

“I don't want you to ever feel that way Sophia,” he shakes his head, “sometimes, I just have bad days, and I get angry easily. It wasn't my intentions to yell at you like that, I would never purposely talk to you that way.”

I press my hands to each side of his face and wipe away the tears, “It's fine Kristopher, I understand.”

He sniffs, and his eyes flutter when my thumb skims across the skin underneath his eye. His hand drops from my face, and I tuck it back underneath the covers. His lips part slightly, and his breathing starts to slow down and become more calm. I sit still on the edge of the bed for a few more minutes, just observing him as he sleeps. My fingers lightly touch the blistering flesh of his cheek, and trails down to his jaw. He and Max had decided to grow their beards out for some unknown reason. I didn't mind though, he looks unbelievably handsome either way.

I peel off my clothes and find one of Kristopher's shirts to wear to sleep. The scent is overwhelming in the most pleasant way, and seconds after I'm in the bed I feel myself dozing off. I snuggle further underneath the covers, basking in the warmth of Kristopher's body. My hand promptly searches for his, and when I find it I grasp it in my hand desperately.

Even though he's pretty much knocked out, he feels my hand and squeezes it softly.
****
I wake up to the feeling of something wet on my cheek.

The smell of bacon wafts all the way from the kitchen, up the stairs, and into the master bedroom. I dare not open my eyes, because I know the second I do my headache will worsen. I immediately regret drinking all of that vodka and beer last night. I recall how Sophia hadn't left my side once after she picked me up from the bar, even when I had been spilling my guts into the toilet. I had been a complete wreck, but she was there for me throughout the whole ordeal, not once complaining.

The wetness on my cheek starts become warmer, and for a second I think it's Sophia attempting to wake me up, but when I hear a diminutive growl I instantly open my eyes and shoot up. Frankie is sitting in front of me, trying to look intimidating with no prevail. I grab the puppy and swing my legs over the side of the bed, finally deciding to get up from the mattress. I set Frankie on the floor and watch as he trots out of the room as fast as he can with his little legs. Rubbing my eyes wearily I make my way to the bathroom so I can brush my teeth and make my hair look decent.

It's soundless as I walk down the stairs, with the exclusion of the dense rain hitting the roof. The house is warm, and I figure that at some point during the night Sophia must have turned the heater on. I move into the kitchen without being noticed by her. She's working hard on breakfast while listening to her ipod. I shake my head when I can hear the heavy metal music that is blaring from her earbuds. I sit on one of the stools at the island, and stare at her back as she flips pancakes and bacon. She's wearing my Team Canada t-shirt that falls down to the middle of her thighs, her legs are covered by a pair of black tights. I notice how long her hair has gotten, it falls down to the middle of her back in soft waves and is a few shades lighter than when she had first arrived in Pittsburgh nearly four months ago. She had changed so much within those few months. Even though she still has her vulnerable moments, she's more confident and outgoing. Her laugh is authentic and she doesn't have to force her smiles any longer

She yanks her earbuds out, finally noticing me when she turns around, “Breakfast is going to take a few more minutes.”

I nod, “Okay.”

The silence consumes me and I absolutely hate it. The last thing I want is for things to be awkward between us. I quietly get up from the stool and make my way towards Sophia, she sinks into my body when my arms wrap around her torso, crossing right underneath her breasts.

I bury my face into the crook of her neck, “Are you mad at me?” I ask weakly.

“I'm not mad at you Kris,” She turns her head and her supple lips kiss my forehead, “I know you were just having a bad day.”

What I did to deserve someone so understanding and compassionate as Sophia, I will never know.

“I shouldn't have lied to you anyways, I mean we are in a relationship, I should tell you what's going on.” She speaks up again, putting all of the troubles onto her shoulders again.

“I just thought it would help you if you told me what's going on. I know you're going through a lot of stress right now. Having to deal with all of this bullshit with Ryan and your mother.” She tenses up when I mention her mother.

“This is about her, isn't it? Your mom?” I ask delicately. My heart sinks to my feet when she nods her head.

“Something bad is going to happen, I just know it.” She whispers and scoops a pancake out of the pan with a spatula. She sets it on a plate that already has 10 pancakes on it.

She turns around in my arms and stares at my face with those worried blue eyes.

“How do you know something is going to happen?”

Her head drops, “She called me.”

My arms drop to my side and I run a hand over my face, “When?”

“Last Tuesday.” She whimpers. Maybe she thinks I'm going to get mad at her again, because she avoids eye contact with me and takes a step backward.

“What do you think she's going to do, Ne peut pas être trop mal?” I unconsciously slip into my native tongue.
“You don't know my mother, she's a terrible woman,” Something flashes through her eyes and I wonder what she's thinking about.

I want to comfort her and tell her that everything is going to be okay, but I can't even do that. No, that would be lying because I don't know what's going to happen.

She hands me a plate full of blueberry pancakes and crispy bacon. Breakfast is eaten in silence, and every time I glance at Sophia who's sitting across from me at the island, her blue eyes are glazed over. I already know what she's doing; she's either thinking of the worst possible scenarios, or she's thinking about her past and all of the horrible things her mother has done to her. She nibbles on a piece of bacon, and only eats one pancake.

I watch helplessly as everything crashes into her like a tidal wave, the severity of the situation is beyond both of our control.
****
It rains for days, thunder clashes a few miles away from our house, and sometimes a sliver of lightning flashes in through the windows.

Kris is out on a one week road trip with the team, and it's just Frankie and I at the house. I always hated it when Kris had to leave for long periods of time, but I understand that it's a part of his career. I turn the volume up for the TV so I can hear it over the loud booms of thunder, and watch with great interest as the commentators on TSN talk about Kris Letang's outstanding performance in their previous game against Nashville. They talk about a possible return for Sidney Crosby who has been out on concussion symptoms since a game against Tampa Bay, when he had gotten checked head-first into the boards.

I snort when they start talking about Alex Ovechkin, and his nonexistent chances at winning a Stanley Cup. I get up from the sectional part of the couch and walk into the kitchen, glancing out one of the windows on the way there. It's almost 6:30 PM, but it already looks like nighttime with the dim clouds. Frankie follows me into the kitchen, waiting for his dinner as I pull mine out of the oven. I had baked some salmon to go with leftover pasta that Vero and I made last night. I pour some dog food into Frankie's dish, petting his head as he barks prosperously.

Kris and I usually only sit at the kitchen table when we have company over, otherwise we sit at the island, or on the couch. I plop down on the couch and ignore Frankie as he tries to mooch food off from me. After a few minutes he finally gives up and curls up one of the recliners with an annoyed huff, his big brown eyes fixated on me.

I scowl, “How are you always so hungry? You're just like Kris.”

It is quite scary how much that man can eat, even the guys on the team tease him about it often. I flip through the channels when they're finished talking about the Penguins. There is literally nothing on, I attempt to watch Jersey Shore, but after 2 minutes I figure that I've already lost enough brain cells from Snooki's imbecility.

A swift knock on the door resonates throughout the house, and I involuntarily shiver at how frantic the person is knocking, like it's an emergency. I quickly get up from the couch and jog towards the door, maybe someone needs help. I swing the door open as the knocking continues to get louder.

My breath catches in my throat and I can't even speak when I see who's casually standing in front of me.

“What are you doing here?”

“What, I'm not allowed to visit my daughter?” My mother says bitterly. She tries to move past me and into the house, but I quickly block her way.

“No, you're not actually.” I step out of the house and close the door behind me, “Why don't you really tell me what you're doing here?”

Her eyes harden, “I just got done visiting Ryan... In jail,” she says glaring at me, “He wanted me to give this to you.”

She hands me a white envelop, with what I believed contains a letter. I gaze at the paper for a few moments.

“So now you're doing his dirty work?” I ask peevishly.

She shrugs nonchantly, “I would do anything for him, I love him.”

Her voice is stripped of all emotion, and she reminds me of a zombie. Her drug addiction has gotten worse, I can tell just by glancing at her. Her navy blue eyes look sunken into her eye sockets, her skin is saggy and a sallow yellowish colour. Her boobs are practically falling out of her tank top, and her legs look like twigs. She turns around and walks toward her car, I angrily follow her into the rain, not caring that I'm soaking wet within a few minutes.

“No you don't,” I shake my head, “You don't even know how to love anymore! You've put so much energy in trying to please him that you don't even know what love is! Did you even love my own father? Or did you two just get married because he pitied you?”

She whips around and stares at me savagely, “I loved your father! You're lucky you are even alive today you ungrateful little shit. I wanted to get rid of you the minute I found out I was pregnant, but you're dad made me keep it, and I did. That's how much I loved him!”

“You liar!” I scream hysterically as tears pour from my eyes, “You cheated on him and you call that love?! Tell me, mother, how long did you cheat on dad before he died. Weeks, months, was it even years? Did you even feel guilty at all? Because it sure doesn't seem like it.”

She sobs, “No I didn't feel guilty, at all.”

I helplessly wipe the raindrops from my face, “What's wrong with you?”

She laughs maniacally and it almost scares me. Her eyes are bloodshot and the way she's stumbling around leads me to believe that she's on some type of drug.

“There is so much wrong with me, darling. You have no clue.”