Several months had passed since the death, and I thought maybe the crippling feeling I experienced every day would have eased slightly with time, but that was the furthest thing from the truth. It only felt like the pain grew deeper.

Jett tried to distract me with the Lafayette Club, giving me more responsibilities and adding three more girls to the roster. He had me training them in the state-of-the-art gym, but it was just a minor distraction, nothing more.

A typical day of mine began with a long workout, beating a sand-filled bag until my knuckles felt raw in the boxing gloves, then I would shower, meet the girls in the gym, and train them with simple plyometrics. Afterwards, we would spend hours in the Toulouse Room, where I watched the girls practice their routines until I was satisfied with their performance. Food fell in there somewhere, but it was never anything I enjoyed because frankly, I couldn’t taste anything anymore. It was all bland nourishment required to help me endure my arduous self-hatred. My nights were filled with getting lost in a bottle of hard liquor that was kept well stocked in the Lafayette Club. The next morning, I would repeat my day, never allowing myself to enjoy any aspect of my life.

I was a dead man walking the streets of New Orleans, a lifeless soul with no future, a fragmented and beaten down human with a passion to live a miserable life, serving a lifetime of repentance.

The crack of a ball against an aluminum bat shifted my thoughts to the tee-ball game. There was no baseball field, just a grass lot mapped with cones and bases, and lined with chairs of parents, cheering on their children. There were at least four fields in the park with the same setup, maximizing the park’s space for the growing little league the city offered the community.

A snack table flanked one side of the fields, where a group of moms took money in exchange for sports drinks and sunflower seeds.

Children’s laughter echoed through the park, owners walked their dogs, and parents tried to confine their littles ones who were supposed to be watching their older siblings play the simple game of baseball.

The park reeked of family, making me itch all over.

This was welcome torture.

The masochistic pain buried itself deep into my bones and radiated through my veins, reminding me once again that I was alive to feel such pain.

“Got you!” a little boy screamed in front of me, tagging his friend.

“No you didn’t. You got my shirt. That doesn’t count,” his friend replied.

“Your shirt is on you, so I got you.”

“Doesn’t count,” the boy who was not making a valid statement said.

“Does too,” the tagger fought.

“No it doesn’t,” the cheater replied.

“Fine,” the little boy said, stepping forward and punching his friend in the arm. “Got you now!”

Hell, a small smirk crossed my face from the genius move.

The other boy fell backward for a second and then regained his balance while holding on to his arm. His face raged and in an instant, they both took off running, yelling at each other the whole time.

The interaction made me think of all the times Jett and I had chased each other around during recess. We’d been from different classes in society, but that hadn’t stopped Jett from meeting me out on the playground and forming a bond that could never be broken.

We’d been through everything together, and even though we’d had our fights, our disagreements, there was always an underlining understanding that whatever happened, we would always have each other’s backs.

That pact had been prevalent in the last year. Jett had never left my side at the beginning of my boxing career. He’d been the driving force behind me, making sure I stayed true to myself. When I’d lost everything, been stripped of my career, he’d stood by me, believed in my innocence. When I had taken the life of another man, he’d covered up my guilt. He’d taken me in and provided shelter, a refuge for my contrition.

 He stood by my side on days like today, when the urge to persecute myself weighed heavy on my shoulders.

“Do you know which field it’s on?” Jett asked, pulling up next to me and putting on his sunglasses.

“No,” I replied, looking around.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Jett asked, placing a hand on my shoulder.

“I have to. This isn’t an option.”

“Why are you torturing yourself?”

I spoke as softly as I could over the uproarious cheers of the parents edging the fields’ sidelines.

“You can either walk with me to the field and stand with me, or you can leave. Questions are not welcome. I fucking do this because I want to. Deal with it.”

Without a word, Jett gave me a curt nod and followed me as I took off toward the fields, looking for the woman ingrained in my brain.

She had long brown hair that floated around her shoulders. Her skinny frame was not hard to see since she was tall for a woman. Her pointed shoulders and knobby knees were also easy to find, but it was the dark circles under her eyes I could never forget.

Linda Duncan, mother of one, wife of none.

I scanned the parents sitting in their camping chairs, lounging over coolers, and talking to each other while watching their children attempt to play baseball.

The first field was occupied by two teams wearing a hodge-podge of clothes, but you could tell one team was supposed to be yellow and the other orange. I didn’t see anyone who resembled Linda Duncan, so I turned my attention to the second field, where teams of gray and purple played against each other. There was a huddle of parents on one side, drinking from their water bottles and laughing, but I didn’t see Linda there either. I was about to turn to the third field when I heard a bunch of parents clap and start cheering for Madeline.

“Knock them in, Madeline!” a stout man called while he fist-pumped the air.

I spotted the little girl who’d been haunting my dreams. She wore a pair of jean shorts that were entirely too big on her and hoisted up around her waist with a pink belt. Her large purple jersey was tucked in, and the white shoes with pink laces she was wearing were marked with dirt.

She grabbed a bat from the ground and pushed up a helmet so she could see where she was going. She was tiny, too fucking tiny. It broke my heart in half.

“Come on, Madeline. You got this, baby,” said a woman behind me.

Just before I looked behind me, Linda Duncan brushed past me on her way to the field, holding a bag of orange slices. My heart seized in my chest as the widow of the man whose life I’d taken passed me, her brown hair lifting in the light breeze. She was still too thin, but from the brief glance I got of her face, the dark circles were gone and she wore a bright smile.

Confusion hit me hard as I wondered why she looked so free, so happy. I glanced over at Madeline, who held the aluminum bat in one hand and pushed on her helmet again with the other. Freckles graced her cheeks and a tiny smile spread across her face when she saw her mom walking toward the field. Madeline raised her hand and waved at her mom with excitement. Linda gave her a thumbs-up and pointed at the field.

With determination, Madeline nodded and lifted the bat, barely able to hold the metal tube with her little arms.

“Is that them?” Jett asked.

Not able to speak over the knot in my throat, I nodded and stepped closer as Madeline waited for a ball to be placed on the tee in front of her.

Runners loaded the bases, waiting for Madeline to take her chance at a swing.

“Play ball,” one of the coaches yelled.

Loading up, she swung, making direct contact with the tee and missing the ball completely.

“Strike one,” the umpire called, putting the ball back on the tee.

Madeline ducked her head as she realized she’d zeroed in on the wrong target.