Page 8 of Everest

I walk out of the bathroom, drag on a pair of worn jeans, the denim soft against my skin, and pull a black tee over my head, the fabric stretching tight across my chest and shoulders.

I stroll barefoot into the kitchen, the old floorboards groaning under my weight as I prepare my coffee. The rich, earthy aroma fills the air as it brews, the dark water dripping into the pot. Once ready, I pour myself a mug.

The early morning air greets me when I step out onto the balcony. It mingles the scents of freshly baked bread from nearby bakeries and the distant brine of the Mississippi River, along with the stench of stale beer and cigarette smoke clinging to the damp air. I take a sip of coffee, the bold, slightly bitter taste grounding me as I scan the street below.

Bourbon Street is never quiet, not even at this hour. A few stragglers from last night weave along the sidewalks, their steps unsteady, voices low and sluggish. Street cleaners move down the block with hoses, washing away the grime. Across the street,a couple of bartenders lean against a doorway, smoking. Neon signs still flicker, their glow paling against the creeping daylight.

The city is waking up, but it never really sleeps. The scent of strong chicory coffee drifts from a nearby café. A delivery truck rumbles past, its tires splashing through puddles left behind by the street cleaners. A beat of silence passes, but it’s not long before the low buzz of conversations starts as early risers and workers add to the city's rhythm. New Orleans is always alive and pulsing with a constant undercurrent that never stops.

Living above Twisted Throttle has its perks. It makes working at the bar downstairs convenient. Riggs and his old lady, Luna, lived here before expanding their family. Now, it’s my sanctuary.

I take another sip and reflect on the journey that brought me here. Growing up in a small Minnesota town, my world revolved around hockey. As an only child, I poured everything into the sport, dreaming of going pro one day. I carried those hopes and dreams through high school and into college. Unfortunately, a series of events sidetracked those plans. During a college game, a brutal hit twisted my knee into an unnatural position. The pain was instant and blinding—the diagnosis, a torn ACL and MCL.

Rehab was grueling, but I pushed through it, fighting like hell to keep my dreams alive. I told myself I'd return stronger than before, so I made every hour in the gym, every excruciating step count.

Aside from being benched from playing the sport I loved, I also hadn’t ridden in months. The Harley I’d built from the frame up sat in the garage untouched. Riding was my therapy. The road was a place where I found clarity and freedom, and I needed it. I was itching to feel the wind on my face and the vibration of my bike beneath me. When I was strong enough to ride again, I didn’t hesitate.

I’m jolted back to that day and the moment that ultimately altered my future for good.

The sharp curve I took too fast.

The moment I realized the tires weren’t gripping the asphalt.

The gut-wrenching weightlessness as my body launched from the bike.

The brutal impact that rattled my bones and tore my flesh.

The taste of blood in my mouth.

The fire in my ribs as I gasped for air as I lay broken on the side of the road, my bike a twisted wreck beside me.

Just like that, everything I’d worked for and the dream I’d built my life around were gone.

I was back at square one.

I spent months in rehab and was told I could never perform at the level needed to continue playing hockey. I became a shadow of myself, drowning my bitterness, hate, and frustration in alcohol. The bottle numbed the weight pressing against my chest but never lifted it. I drank until the fire in my gut turned to ice, and the rage inside me felt distant. But it never really disappeared. It just waited, hungry and ready to strike. Eventually, whiskey wasn’t enough to keep my inner turmoil at bay. That’s when I became heavily involved with underground fight clubs. The rush I got from bare-knuckle brawls became my drug of choice.

Underground fighting was different. It didn’t just dull the anger, it unleashed it. The moment I stepped into that ring, the world outside faded. The deafening roar of the crowd, the sweat, and the metallic tang of blood in the air fed the chaos inside.

Every brutal blow my opponent landed made me feel alive. The pain was a welcome distraction. I’d strike back, my knuckles splitting, flesh and bones crushing beneath my fists. The rush was intoxicating, a primal high that drowned out everything. I lost myself in the raw, unfiltered violence of the fight.

It was more than winning.

It was about control.

And I didn’t stop when I should’ve, pushing past limits, past reason and mercy until one night I went too far.

I don’t remember what made me snap and shut off all reason. Maybe the guy talked too much shit or hit me wrong. Perhaps it was too many nights with too much whiskey in my veins and rage clawing at my insides. All I know is my fists kept swinging long after they should have stopped, followed by muffled yelling being drowned out by the roaring in my ears. Tunnel vision slowed everything down except for my knuckles hitting his flesh.

When I finally came back to myself, the guy was on the ground, not moving, and his chest rose in shallow, uneven breaths, his face bloody and swollen. And for the first time, as I stared down at him, the rush didn’t drown out the weight pressing on my chest. It made it heavier.

That was my wake-up call.

I wasn’t in control.

I wasn’t coping.

I was self-destructing.

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