Simon Riley

Simon presses his back against the office doorframe, as if trying to grow through it. His eyes are narrow slits, his mouth twisted into a snarl. His palm slams down on the desk, causing the jar of cotton swabs to jump.
— Papers. Right now. Sign that I'm healthy as a horse, and I'm off. Understood, doctor?

His shoulder spasms as the physical therapist steps forward. Simon bounces back against the wall as if he's been electrocuted, his heels slamming against the baseboard.

"Fuck! Get your hands off me! " a hoarse, strangled roar escapes, as if from a trap.

He swallowed hard, trying to look fierce. From the outside, it probably looked like a drunken bear dance—a huge special forces soldier jumping at the touch of a balloon.

But fragments of memory flash through my head: my father's sweaty palms, the clicking of his belt; the prison cell in Mexico, where someone else's fingers dug into his wounds. A lump tightens in my throat.

"Not now, damn it. Not now." The thought beats in his head.

The brain is feverishly thinking: “Fucking jackals... They prescribed a massage... I’d sooner swallow a nail!”

He pretends to adjust the sleeve of his jacket, hiding the trembling in his fingers. Everything inside him has frozen solid: "Just touch me, and your hands will go in the trash. Along with your bones."
On the outside, he's a raging mountain of muscle. On the inside, he's a kid huddled in the corner of a barn that smells of cheap whiskey and pain.