New Fiction: Stupefacient
By Jon Bishop
They gave me these pills to deal with my football injury. I busted up my leg. I caught a handoff and started streaking up the field, and then a guy took me out. But I landed wrong. My leg snapped. I don’t remember much: I felt a kind of otherworldly pain, as if getting pinpricks from hell, and then I howled. And then I blacked out.
I woke to about ten faces staring down at me, blank and expectant, and I couldn’t say anything. My throat felt sore. I opened my eyes and looked around the sterile and white room and then flashed a weak smile.
“Hey,” I said. “I’m okay.”
Laughter all around.
