A very short passage of a story that I've thought of, about a young professional footballer trying to make it in the sport, whilst dealing with depression and a constant temptation to return to his previous drug addicted ways.
Taylor quietly exited the stadium, barely murmuring a word to his team mates as he made his way out of the changing rooms, down towards the players' reception and straight out through the vast front doors, an absolutely foul mood enveloping him more and more with each step taken. The rain that had so affected his balance during the game remained, the sound of each single thud of a raindrop on a nearby car echoing around his head like a ball bouncing off the crossbar, serving as a reminder as to how he'd managed to slip and let Sanchez in to score the winner for the opponents. As he reached his car, a troubling smile played upon his lips for a moment, breathing deeply as the rain fell harder upon him, seemingly frozen, stood by his car with one hand on the door handle. He stood there, images racing through his mind; that slip, the way he'd repeatedly been beaten by Alvarez down the left hand side, the misplaced pass to Jamie that had almost cost his side another goal. After some moments, Taylor came back to reality, shook his head as though that would suddenly rid it of all the negativity, got in and slumped in the driver's seat, with absolutely no motivation to move.
"Maybe the press are right", thought Taylor, with his head on the steering wheel, "maybe I'll never snap out of it. Maybe I am too panicky, maybe that'll never go, maybe I'm too slow, maybe I can't pass, maybe I'm not good enough to keep Alex out of the team, maybe Uncle Dave was right, maybe I'm not good enough to play professional football, maybe I can't fucking do anything. Fuck! Jesus."