“Victimized”

Richard Thomas

(This story was originally published in 2011

in Murky Depths #15 as a shorter version.)

© Copyright Richard Thomas, 2011

It’s the third night in a row and my bloodlust can’t be quenched. There aren’t many women here, I’m one of the few. They don’t have the stomach for it. I do. This advancement in prison control, this thinning of the herd was inevitable. The people won’t stand for anything less. The guilty have an option now at the hands of their victims. There are no laws here, no punishment beyond this place. Fight or die. On some nights, fight and die.

The warehouse is vast and yet we are on top of each other. Some are sweaty, wiping their foreheads with the back of their hands, taking deep breaths. Others have their arms wrapped around emaciated frames, shivering as if cold. In the center of the room is a patch of canvas, a lone dim bulb descending from the rafters, a sepia tone declaring this time history to be recorded. Risers are scattered around the ring, leading up to concrete walls and dusty windows with spiderweb cracks. Mottled red girders extend across the space.

The stench is nauseating, men who haven’t bathed in weeks, ripe and rotten. Sweaty socks and rancid feet fill my nostrils. But it is the scent of the man I must beat down in three days, so I inhale deeply, eyes watering. I come to prepare myself, to rid myself of this mark. This idea of victim. This hiding my eyes and looking away. I am here to gain every advantage I can and watch these men become beasts.

I stand at the top of the metal steps. Months I’ve prepared. Trimming every ounce of fat. Building up muscle where none existed. I fix my gaze on the distance, a place in time where we’ll meet again, and he will not know me then, not as he did before.

The bell rings, sharp and crisp. A mumble works its way through the crowd as the two men leave their corners. One is tall and gangly, his bony ribs protruding from his chest. He moves slowly, one step at a time, watching his opponent, mouth open, hands clenched. Across from him is a cloud of rage, black lines and insects, a sheet of rain occupying the space. It is pent up frustration. It is a blind, numb animal instinct. Must be family. They always look like that, the family of the victims. Dark eyes focused, arms trembling, his aging frame strong and pale. I guess father. He’s shaved his head as they often do, a ritual shedding of the past. His lumbering gait is a bit off, balance broken from years of remorse, eons of anguish drowned in buckets of amber.

Voices drift to me. Incest, rape, murder. A sister or daughter? Sex and an accident. A repeated accident. In truth, a plan. Odds are two-to-one in favor of the criminal. He is twenty years younger. Agile and slow, a grin eases across his face. He has faith it will work out. He is wrong.

The men that surround me are all the same. Variations on a theme. The short, dark toad in front of me holds a fistful of bills in one hand and a notepad in the other. Old school.

“Bookman,” I say. “Hey, Bookman.”

He turns around, glances to my left, to my right, finally to my eyes, as they bore into him.

“What’s up, lady. You want some action?”

“100 bucks on the old man. The father.”

“You sure, baby?”

I swallow my rage and take a deep breath.

“Just asking...”

I hand him a bill, and he sucks it into his fist, scrawling his mark and some numbers on the pad. His mouth parts in a toothless grin. He blinks and a twitch invades his left eye.

“Here you go.”

He tears off the scrap of paper and hands it to me.

I look up in time to see the scarecrow advance, a flurry of fast fists to the old man’s head.

Right, right, left, right.

He steps back. Forward.

Jab, jab, cross, uppercut.

Fists pulled back, he hesitates, full of pride and wonder. A grin sweeps across his face, a bounce in his step, this bag of sticks confident, as the balding hunchback straightens up.

The old man pulls his fist from ten years ago, up past his hip, and the crowd goes silent. We all see it. The left-right step, left hand crossing over, then cocking back, right hand moving forward, one smooth motion as if he composed it yesterday. I can’t believe I didn’t see these paws before. They were hidden on his flank, two sledgehammers at the end of his arms. Right before contact, a second before the stain’s nose is smashed into his face, before the blood flows and cartilage snaps, the smile leaves his face. Now he knows. He screwed up.

I feel a tingling sensation between my legs. My mouth opens and I gasp into the foul air, my secret lost in the screams of the room. It will be a long night. I have things to work out. And I won’t be alone.

The fist connects, filling the face until I fear it may push through. One shot. That’s all it will take. The old man exhales, the grunt of an avenging angel who has fallen so far that the only way is up. Up through the face of the random stranger who took it all away. The thin limbs shoot out as his face crumples in on itself, the nose shifting to one side, a flow of crimson pouring down his face. It covers his chest and seeps into his shorts. Teeth snap, and imbed in the knuckles of the giant fist that has eclipsed the sun. Legs kick out as he falls backwards with an empty thud. A jolt of his legs and he is still, a trickle of urine running out of his shorts, his bare skin pink, before it fades to gray.

Standing over him, the aging hulk wants more. He grabs the flaccid neck and picks it up. Cocking his fist, he holds the scrawny frame, arms trembling, a gust of air flowing out of him. And then another. He drops the man, and steps away, head hung. Turning to the side he retches. Wiping his mouth, he walks away. It is done now, and it was never what he wanted. But he had no choice.

The ape in front of me hands me back three bills and walks down the steps. My winnings will be spent, every cent. I can’t have that taint on me. Even in the death of the miserable, the wasted, I cannot celebrate. A smile fills my face as I plan his execution. I will practice tonight on the drunken flesh of the nearest golem.

#

They all blur together, these memories. Bits and pieces that I repressed for so long. That I chose not to believe, for my sanity. They have something in common, these moments he stole from me, these bits of me he took. They are all wrapped in an uneasy blanket. His hands were hands I trusted. His caress was one I longed for, out of love, this love of family, the undying depth we had, that filled me up and gave me peace. This ate at me, like a rash on my skin, and I scratched until it bled.

Some nights when I can’t sleep, they come to me, these moments. Scattered and grainy, fast cut edits, slicing through the dark sky. In these moments, I am restless and uneasy, and I hear his footsteps in the hall.

“Uncle Jon, is that you?”

“Shhhh baby, I just came to tuck you in.”

Crickets out the open window, fireflies flickering in the dark.

“You should be asleep Annabelle. School tomorrow.”

“I know. It’s too hot out.”

“Well take off your nightie sweetheart, I’ll help you.”

It was always my naked flesh, this innocence that I’d had forever, unable to act any other way. So I never considered what I did, or how he reacted. I didn’t think twice about the situations I was in, and how he appeared, a silent ghost on the wind, waiting to help me.

“Aren’t you going swimming Anna?”

“I’m coming, just putting my suit on. It keeps getting stuck, the crisscross thingy in the back.”

“Here sweetie, I’ll help you. You’ve got it all tangled up. Here, take it off. All the way off. Okay, now turn around and step into it. There you go. You got it now.”

Where were my parents? Oh. Right.

He was always eager to help out, to babysit. Go out and have some fun, he’d say. Go see that movie, have some drinks, relax. I’ll stay with Annabelle.

“It’s okay Uncle Jon, I can do it by myself.”

“I know you can, Anna. Just humor me. If anything happened to you, if you slipped in the tub, if you hit your head and drowned to death, well, your parents would never forgive me.”

“But...”

“Baby, I’ve seen it all before. Ain’t no big thing. Here, I’ll help you wash that long brown hair. It must be a pain in the ass to take care of.”

“Sometimes.”

“Look, the bubbles are all in there, how fun is that?”

“Uncle Jon, I’m too big for a bubble bath.”

“Nonsense, honey. Your mama takes bubble baths. Go ahead and get undressed.”

I toss and turn. His hands on me. Were they supporting me, holding me up, helping me? Or were they trapping me, pushing me down, hurting me? The bad dreams. For so many years. Being chased in the dark, these horrible beasts, trees with long arms, pointy branches, scratching my skin, poking me in the back, poking me in places that were foreign in every way. I dreamt so hard that some mornings I swear there were cuts on my skin, band-aids I don’t remember. Drops of blood in my panties. I didn’t understand.

Tonight I lay in my bed, alone. Again. The fight is a distant blur of rust and bone. Years ago it seems. I have blood on my hands again, but it’s not my own. No details remain, only his hands on me. Supporting me, holding me up, helping me to undress. His breath rich with bourbon and beer. The walk to my apartment is short, only a step or two, straight to my bed, my clothes falling off me like leaves in an autumn breeze. This dance I am doing now, it is recreating the act, over and over again. Muscle memory. Laughter and hair tossing, a batting of my eyes, and his skinny wrists slip into the handcuffs, a leer creeping over his mouth. Salivating, eager, ready for me, it is this point in the dead of the night, the gap before dawn, that I slip the gag into his mouth, and start cutting. The blade is quiet, a gasp in the night, slicing at arteries, blood spurting as his back arches, screaming into the cloth. I grab hold of whatever I can, cutting it off, slashing deep, gouging the flesh, bathed in sticky syrup, my eyes wide, a stranger to myself.

The crisp white sheets are clean and I’m alone. Again. At peace with the darkness, my eyes closed.

#

The gravel in the parking lot crunches under my bootheels. The shadow at the door stands with arms crossed, dimly lit by the opening behind him. The muffled sounds of a thousand stomping feet beat behind the thick metal door, a bass drum thudding in sync with my heart.

“Hey Belle, what’s up,” he says.

He is a mountain of pale, white flesh, bald head littered with scripture, manicured goatee pointing to his chest. I stay with his eyes, watching the pupils jump, as my lips part into a grin.

“Hey Cane. Keeping you busy?”

“You know it. Good crowd tonight. The usual.”

“Nothing strange going on?”

“Not yet,” he says, eyes drifting down to my skintight jeans, the black half-shirt clinging to my curves.

“The night is young,” I say.

“True. You ready for tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“I don’t have to worry about you do I? I’ll close up the front and come hang if you want...”

“Naw, it’s okay...”

“...really I don’t mind. Fuck the rules.”

I push up against him. It’s like trying to hug a redwood. I’m a moth fluttering against an Aztec sun.

“I’m good,” I say, the hush barely carrying to him, as he leans over to soak up every syllable.

“Alright. I don’t wanna see you get hurt, baby.”

We stand still for a moment, him the extended overhang of a dilapidated old building, me the silent furry beast skittering about under the pillars. The door pushes open, letting out a hot rush of sweaty noise. A skinny kid in torn denim and piercings stumbles out, his pockets inside out, knuckles bloody, his gait askew.

“Go. Go on in. Prepare yourself Annabelle.”

I ease towards the door frame, leaving his eyes to wander my backside. I can feel his hunger creeping up my spine and consider for a moment the possibilities. No. Too close to home.

Down the long hall, through the boroughs I move, passing one neighborhood and into the next. A huddle of goth whores suck down cigarettes in the corner. A ring of skinheads flex muscles to the right. A pile of retards squat in their own urine. And a trio of flesh peddlers soak up the moonlight, glossy lips like forbidden apples. Closer to the ring the serious boys beat on the mat, leather jackets in black and brown. Bookies and pimps, cokeheads and stoners, MILFS on the prowl and young turks circling, toying with skinjobs.

I can see Michael in the ring. I’m in time. He glances over to me as I pass. I nod and head up the rafters. Eyes on the prize, Mike. Watch your back. Sensing his foe advancing, his head pivots back like a Mastiff tracking its kill. The skeleton halts.

Michael is a legend here. The fighters are mostly family. Furious fathers, beaten down brothers, rage filled husbands, champing at the bit. All ready to die to avenge somebody. Michael is different. He’s none of these things.

When they come up for trial, they’re given the choice. Jury or the ring. Most take the ring. There’s always the chance that nobody will oppose them. Some of the men, the beasts, they go free without ever stepping on the canvas. If they’re smart they go underground and are never seen again. You don’t have to stand in the daylight to peddle your wares.

Michael. Right.

I watch him go around and around. He’s built like a bulldog, short and squat with a massive neck. He wears these stupid tight black shorts. I’d say he looks gay if I didn’t like him so much. Trust him so much. Want him. So. Much. But he’s family. He’s not ripped, he’s solid. Big arms, the same girth all the way down. Tree trunks for legs. His chest is as deep as my shoulders are wide. Wider. Hairy as a bear. When his black eyes turn to me, I go cold. They always find me, no matter where I stand, no matter what violence is unfolding in the ring. We’re kin.

Michael is here every night. He stands in for the weary, the weak. The no-shows. And there are plenty. He used to be a cop, private dick, security. Other. I don’t ask anymore. He stands in for those that chicken out, and his beat downs are historic. He has levels. Depending on what you’re in for. It starts at broken bones, and descends from there for the murderers and rapists. The child molesters. Those never leave alive. They never go easy. He offered to take mine for me. I told him no. He understood.

His grunting from the ring brings my vision back into focus. His arms tighten around the thin man’s neck. I open my ears to the language of the risers. Drugs, kids, strung along. Thief, violence, death.

Something snaps and the bag of bones stiffens, gargling a request for mercy. Michael twists his arm behind his sharp little back and breaks it. The pale frame collapses in the dust, the mat barely responding to his presence. Both arms are bent behind him at awkward angles, wrong, upsetting. I turn away. It still gets to me. The crowd fills my ears with their rapture. I give Michael a quick glance, my face twisted, lips pursed, nodding nonetheless, giving him my approval. I have to. He needs to receive it, as much as I need to give it.

They clear off the mat as quick as they always do. Very little blood tonight. I scan the crowd quickly, the pause filling my stomach with butterflies.

“She’s here,” the frogman in front of me says.

“Who?” I ask.

“Your girlfriend. She’s here.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“It’s okay baby, I understand.”

His lips distend, holding the stub of a cigar, a wisp of smoke drifting up to the brim of his hat.

“It’s not like that, asshole.”

“Belle. I know. I’m rooting for her too.”

He turns around. More people know me here then I’m comfortable with. Like I’ve said, not many women. Not here by the ring. Not in the ring. I came to watch her. To learn, to prepare myself, to hope.

They come out at the same time from different sides of the warehouse. Him in a ratty old bathrobe, twisting his neck from side to side, cracking his knuckles. She drifts to the edge of the mat like a gazelle, slow and graceful, covering the ground in more time than makes sense. She is the light to my dark. Blonde to my brunette. Lipstick lesbian to my bull dyke. She gazes in my direction, holding her right hand over her eyes and I smile with my entire being for the first time in years. And my stomach drops. I fear for her.

They strip off the outerwear, the sweatshirts, the robe. Down to skin and muscle, tight leggings and chestplate hiding her womanly curves, him in tired shorts that are no color but dirt. I told her not to. She isn’t ready.

The mumbling in the crowd builds, catcalls and whistles, and the toad turns around, raising one eyebrow in a question.

“No. Thanks.”

He turns back around, shrugging his shoulders. Taking the bills and handing out slips. The bell rings.

He goes right for her. I know the stakes. Rape, torture, fracturing her in more ways than I can count. Not that long ago. I see a rabid pit bull advancing on a small white poodle and yet I cannot look away.

His meaty hands go for her neck, eyes bulging, lips in a snarl. She ducks under as he flounders past, shoving her tiny fist into his stomach, knocking out his wind. He slumps over, so she darts back in, peppering his back with a rapid fire attack.

Jab, jab, jab, jab, jab. Pause. Jab, jab, jab, jab, cross.

She backs away, face flush, a smile lighting up her rosy cheeks. His back is littered with red marks, puncture wounds I think. She’s wearing something on her hands I can’t see. Good girl.

He straightens up, blood trickling down his back. His fists clench and unclench, teeth bared as he advances. She is light on her feet, bouncing around, circling him, always one step ahead and he can’t get close. Anger boils to the surface and you can read every word on it. All he wants is to strangle the life out of her, wipe that goddamn smile off her cute little face, bend her over and fuck her, hard.

Again.

He lunges and she moves to the side with ease, dancing on the balls of her feet. She lashes out one quick right catching the back of his head as he stumbles past, opening up a gouge behind his ear.

He wants her so bad his face is purple with blood.

But she won’t let him get near her. Laughter erupts from the crowd. His eyes dart to them, breath speeding up. Some kids in the front row, punks with shaved heads, long hairs with eyeliner, mohawks with safety pins shoved through their cheeks. Torn denim and acne scars. She stops moving and watches him. She watches the punks.

“No,” I whisper. “No,” I say, louder. Toad turns to me, then back to the ring.

Without looking his right fist tightens. Staring at the handful of kids his right leg bent, as if leaning into the crowd, he launches at her, left leg extending, swinging around too fast for her to move. She squeals, her eyes wide as the fist catches her in the throat, crushing her windpipe. Her fingers splay as arms go wide, eyes rolling up in her head. She stands on her feet for a moment, dazed. He advances and beats her about her head and chest. She doesn’t move, against gravity and logic.

Jab, jab, jab.

Uppercut.

And she falls like a cord of wood. He is on her before she even touches the ground. Tearing at her clothes, popping the clasps on her vest, ripping her shirt off, lapping at her pale breasts, tiny pink nipples pointing to the sky. I’ve gone deaf amidst the screams. I close my eyes so that I don’t see more. She knew the risks. She knew the price.

Most of the crowd turns away, disgusted and disappointed. The punks stay, cheering him on. He pulls at her pants and moves to yank them off. A squat figure, dark and solid, slithers onto the stage and pushes a gun in his ear. A quick pop and down he falls, on top of his victim. Not for the first time, but surely the last. The shadow is gone, blending into the crowd. The kids at the ring stand slack jawed and stunned. One bends over and vomits on his feet as the blood soaks into the mat, another layer of life spilled into it. Officials wander on and kick him off of her. They place hands on wrists, on her neck, over her mouth. A stretcher slides under my thin pale girl and they disappear her into the night. I look for Michael in the crowd, his usual spot, the exact opposite of mine, across the way, low, by the ring. He is gone.

#

Back then we moved around a lot. But he always seemed to find us. Find me. Standing alone at a bus stop in the rain, smoking a cigarette outside a coffee shop, wandering around outside school. I wondered sometimes if he was real.

A gas station outside Kansas City waving the heat off me while the nicotine and tobacco bits coated my throat. Parched and sweaty, a long black car would pull up and down the window would go.

“Get in, Belle,” he’d say.

And I would. I don’t know why. I was bored. He’d buy me beer. He’d let me drive whatever hot rod he had, silver steel and leather, candy-apple red and the smell of oil. It got me hot. He knew it.

Walking out of a bar in Fargo, black knit cap pulled tight, oxblood leather boots stomping into the snow drifts, out of money and patience. Up would pull a battered old gunmetal blue pick-up truck, and in I’d jump. A pint of cheap bourbon, not even a label on it, just scratched glass and brown liquid. The streetlights bouncing off the copper madness, pulling it down my throat as if gasping for air. He’d hand me a gun and we’d pull to the side of the road. He’d reach across me, one hand landing on my thigh, the other rolling down the window. I’d stick it out the gap and holding it with two shaky hands, fire, blasting a hole in the stop sign, and off we’d drive, peeling around the corner, rubber burning, back-end swaying, cackling in the night like a couple of old hens.

And every morning I’d wake up in my own bed, in nothing but my white cotton panties and an old black Ramones t-shirt. It scared me the first time it happened. Every alarm in my head went off, every inch of my stomach lined with knots and the threat of purging. And yet I was numb to do anything. Except cut myself.

On the nights that he wouldn’t show, and there were many, on the cold, dark winter nights I’d run the razor blade over my translucent flesh and mark the occasion, slicing open the thin layer of skin until it beaded with blood, and ran down the side of my arm. Then I’d go out. And I’d find a wayward soul worse off than mine and eat it. I’d do to some poor sap what had been done to me, over and over again. I’d bury one waif in an empty grave. I’d lay another over the train tracks. I’d fling a third over my shoulder and toss the broken colt into a dumpster, the stench of rotten milk and kitty litter floating up to me. And I’d cry. I’d cry until the mascara ran down my face and neck into my cleavage, staining my breasts with the empty depth of my frantic scrambling, my howling at the moon and lost nights. I couldn’t stop. His face was on every skull that I broke.

#

Sinuous. That’s the word I am looking for. I stand in front of the floor length mirror, and stare at my naked body. Twenty pounds of muscle replace twenty pounds of fat. I am preparing to go to war and need only apply the paint. I hold the razor blade up to the dim light, shades drawn, a slice of sunshine piercing through the gaps. I have emptied out this space I inhabited. If I ever really existed here. There is nothing of mine left, for I may not return. I may have to run. There is only the bed, the stained mattress a study of my history, a Petri dish boxspring stuck to the floor. The dresser, beaten and chipped, the way I found it.

Names my father used to call me: princess, bunny, doodlebug, sunshine, honey, baby, sweetheart, angel.

I slide the blade down my left bicep and forearm, all the way to the wrist. Just enough to break the skin. Then I do the other arm. Down my ribcage, the bones protruding, just a fraction deeper, a bumpy ride to my navel. Bending over it glides down my left thigh and then my right. I stand up straight and place the sticky razor on the dresser. I run my hands over the seeping cuts on my arms, and spread the paint around. I’m an Indian now, redskin. I dip my right index finger in the expanding droplet at my knee, and paint a line under my left eye. Then my right.

Names my mother used to call me: whore, tramp, slut, loser, waste, darling, pervert, sick.

#

Leaning against the black GTO, I run my hand over the edge of the hood, back and forth. 1968. Blue jeans and that damn Ramones shirt screaming I want to be sedated. I wasn’t even a gleam back in ‘68, but this girl has the curves, the muscle, and I’d been drawn to her for a long time. She used to belong to my father. Kind of like me. I lift the clear glass bottle to my lips and sip at the liquid gold. Just a little to steel my nerves. A pint to nip at. I won’t vomit again.

A crunch of gravel behind me, but I don’t turn. It’s early still, the sun hasn’t even set over the horizon yet, and I stare at the orange dust over the warehouse, as it slowly darkens, the light slipping away. I don’t turn because I know who it is. It can only be one person this early.

“You ready, honey?” he asks.

“No.”

“Little courage, huh?”

“Just a little, Bookman.”

“Make sure it stays that way. You gotta be sharp tonight.”

“I know.”

I turn to him, and he is ancient. Or maybe I’ve become fourteen again. Wrinkled skin and liver spots and I suddenly feel sorry for him, eeking out a living here, watching the blood spill, skimming off the top.

“So what am I up to?”

“Huh?”

“The odds Book. What am I up to?”

“Well, you know...after last night...”

I smile.

“What is it? Twenty? Thirty-to-One?”

“I haven’t taken a dime yet, Belle, but it’ll be fifty-to-one to open.”

I exhale. They have no faith.

“Here. Take it.”

I hand him a roll of money. I’m not even sure how much it is.

“I’ll either be rich or I’ll be dead, Book. Just take it.”

“Okay.”

He stares at me, eyes bulging.

“Good luck.”

#

The roar of the crowd is deafening, my ears washed over by the weight of the ocean. He stands across from me, eyes glazed over, a sparkle buried there, as his head fills with the past.

I am a deception, an illusion, I am not what I seem. The black spandex shorts and tight sleeveless t-shirt are a very thin mesh, a chainmail of sorts. They cannot be penetrated with a knife. It took me awhile to find the other device, but it still exists. Chastity belt. It is surprisingly comfortable and simple to wear. Thin, pliable rubber, lined with metal braces. There is a slot to urinate, but not to penetrate. He will not violate me if I lose. Not again.

I place the rubber mouthpiece in, and crack my neck from side to side. His heavy stare has been on me since I stepped in the ring. Practically salivating, this blood of mine. A sheen of sweat coats my body, as I shake out my legs, as if ready to sprint. I shake out my arms, and crack my knuckles, wrists taped tight, my smoking gun buried over the scarred flesh, waiting for the final act to reveal itself.

He is not impressive. He is less than I remembered, and a part of me feels sorry for him. A small part. The part of me that liked his hand on my thigh, the part of me that turned a blind eye to his indiscretions. In my mind’s eye I see a faucet, with two silver handles on either side. There is hot scalding water streaming out of the opening. I reach over and turn it off.

I finally allow myself to look out into the crowd, to see the faces of my enemies, my neighbors, my chorus. My addiction. They want me to lose, to be torn asunder and punished for my beauty, for simply being a woman. They want to see him get beaten down by the lesser sex. This fickle school of remoras is waiting for the chum to hit the waves, for us to tear each other apart. They will get their wish.

I know Michael is here, I feel his eyes as well. His is a mountain range, a presence on the periphery, and if I look at him I will turn to stone. I am weak, I am strong. I am nothing, I am everything. I take the chance and find his concern, and embrace it. His eyes are ice cubes, blocks of cold disdain. In reality they are holding down his worries and doubts. Like me, he keeps it buried, for fear of letting that weakness destroy him. One simple nod is all he gives me, and it is all that I need.

The bell.

It has started, and I am not ready. I cannot move. My arms hang at my sides as he slowly approaches me, a hyena laughing, his head bobbing up and down, as he eases up to the kill that lies rotting in the African sun. I have forgotten my plan. I have forgotten the face of my father. Uncle Jon advances anyway.

I watch him as he lumbers forward, more fragile now then I remember him, but still very capable of beating me to a pulp. I cannot lift my arms, they are encased in cement. Panic washes over me, and there is nothing I can do. I do not hear the crowd, I hear the screen door slide open, I hear crickets in the back yard chirping, I hear a dog up the street bark and cigarette smoke fills my nose. The crisp snap of a beer can opening and a chuckle in the dark.

He raises his fist and punches me in the face.

It is dark again. As if underwater, sound fades in and out, deep murmurings like a tape being played backwards, and the sharp tingling of needles on my skin, panic, and I open my eyes. His face is all I can see, his mouth open wide, crooked yellow teeth and dry cracking lips. I reach up my hands and shove my thumbnails into his eyes.

And the world rushes back in. I choke on my own blood as he falls off of me, so I turn my head to the side and spit. My mouthguard is gone. My nose may be broken. A hive of bees fills my face, buzzing while the dull stinging spreads to my cheeks. Placing my hands beneath me I am up as fast as I went under. The room swims, and I take a quick glance around, to remind me of where I am, and why I’m here. Jon writhes on the canvas, holding his face in his hands. Over to Michael, again a quick nod.

One cautious foot in front of the other, I ease over to him. On his hands and knees, still holding his face, a dull moan escapes his lips. I kick him as hard as I can in the chest. He flips over like a turtle on the side of the road.

“Get up,” I say.

His eyes blink open, they are still intact. He can still see.

“Get up, you stupid man.”

He scrambles back like a crab on all fours, grabs a hold of the ropes and pulls himself up. He blinks again, the flesh around his eyes gouged, bleeding, but his eyes are still on me.

“Goddamn, Annabelle. And after all I did for you, sugar.”

I raise my fists and come after him. I pummel his head, but he has raised his arms, and the blows glance off his bony forearms. I pause, he lowers. I sock him in the left eye. Moving too slow, as I go in again, a gray blur fills my vision and he punches me again. I reel backwards, stumbling, but regain my balance.

“Come on, Jon,” I say. “This is it.”

He moves forward, a bounce in his step. The initial shock has worn off, but he still thinks this is a joke. Still thinks that deep down he will prevail, no matter what. I’m just a little girl, after all.

When he gets close enough I move to Plan B. A roundhouse kick to the head catches him off guard, sending teeth flying, littering the grimy canvas like a box of spilled Chiclets. Holding his hand to his face, his mouth a bloody gash, I keep coming. A step, a hop and a kick to his chest, the ribs cracking, giving way as his breath flies out of him, staggering back. One more step and a kick to the face, my heel connecting with his nose, head snapping back, blood spraying the air. Drops land on me, my face, spatter my arms and chest as he bounces off the ropes and collapses on the floor.

Standing over him, he lies on his side, a pool of blood forming by his head. The crowd is screaming, they want me to finish him off. But I’m not ready yet. It’s not enough.

“Get up,” I say. “Get up, you sick fuck.”

Slowly he stands up, pushing himself to his knees, grabbing hold of the ropes again, up tall and proud now, his face mangled, eyes swelling shut.

“Let’s go you bitch,” he says.

I back up.

“Sweetest piece of ass I ever had,” he gasps.

I deflate like a balloon. It has been said, out loud. It has a name, it has been called out.

“You used to writhe under me like a worm in the sun,” he says, a crooked grin spreading over his face.

I back up further to the center of the ring.

“You’d grab a hold of my ass and tell me faster...harder...give it to me baby!”

My arms fall to my sides, my stomach a knot of twisted muscles and sharp pains.

“And you kept coming back for more.”

I stop and stare at him and he raises his fists. My head snaps back and forth, and all I see are his knuckles retreating, and a moment later, the pain reveals itself. A pause and he takes a breath and he does it again.

Left, right, left.

I can’t feel my face. My vision is white snow, television noise at three in the morning. My left hand reaches over as he takes another breath. I peel off the tape without even looking at it. I’ve done it a hundred times. In my tiny little apartment, in front of the mirror. I’ve done it with my eyes closed. Blind, much as I am right now. I peel off the layer of tape and expose the smoking gun, in this the third, but not final, act. I snap open the straight edge razor in my right hand, down by my thigh, and he doesn’t even notice. He’s moving in for the kill. And so am I. He thinks I am dazed, lost, a wounded deer caught in the headlights.

When he takes that final step, and pulls back his right arm, I have my gap, my moment. And I take it. Instead of a rag doll waiting for him to pick me up and set me in his bed, I lunge forward, swinging my right arm with every saved up scrap of rage. The blade slices the air as he steps into it, cutting across his throat, my wrist bending, hurting as it connects, cutting through. The gash opens his flesh up, passing through cartilage, opening his windpipe, his head lolling back. His fist glances off the side of my head as the weight of the punch pushes him forward, bathing me in his fluids for the last time. His heart still pumping, the artery shoots the dark liquid into the air, over my head, as he twists away, holding his hands to his neck. Blood surges over his splayed fingers, eyes wide, choking, spitting blood.

Our eyes.

None of it plays back, only the hissing of air as my mind collapses. A tone rings in my ears as I blink my eyes. He wants no forgiveness, for in his mind, he did nothing wrong. To him, I was an accomplice, a keeper of his dirty little secrets, aiding and abetting.

His enabler.

He falls to his knees and I say nothing to him. Pointless. He falls on his face, blood racing across the canvas, creeping into the fabric, and my arms are made of lead. There must be screaming, there must be something, but I am deaf. I am stone. Down my face flow my tears and I stare at my uncle, my lover, my teacher.

I am grateful for none of it. I am rotten and diseased.

#

It was many years later when I returned to the ring. They led me in the back door this time, with an escort. Not for Jon, for the others. I was famous now. They didn’t want any trouble. I was the only woman to ever win here. I’m a little older now. Still in fighting shape. I’ve been riding the wind, moving around, lost, unable to settle down. Like oil and water, the real world and I don’t mix. Up the back stairs, dark concrete, cold and damp, like sweat socks traipsing through a rain filled gutter.

It’s the match of the night, the main event. The building is packed, overflowing into the parking lot, cars on the gravel, spilling into the grass and dirt. Stomping boots, pounding fists, bursting at the seams for my return. When I enter the light, my mouth parts and a smile crosses my lips. My entourage brings me through the ropes, holding my shoulders, my head so I don’t fall. And hurt myself.

I laugh. A quiet laugh.

They undo the handcuffs and out of habit I rub my wrists. They take off my robe, and I am in simple prison garb, the gray shorts and tight tank-top, pale flesh breathing fresh air. Across the ring our eyes connect. Standing inside the ropes, Michael gives me one nod.

#

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Richard was the winner of the ChiZine Publications 2009 “Enter the World of Filaria” contest. His short story “Maker of Flight” was chosen by Filaria author Brent Hayward and Bram Stoker Award-Winning editor Brett Alexander Savory. His debut novel, a neo-noir thriller entitled Transubstantiate (Otherworld Publications) was released in July of 2010. He has published dozens of stories online and in print, including Shivers VI (Cemetery Dance) with Stephen King and Peter Straub, Murky Depths, PANK, Pear Noir!, 3:AM Magazine, Word Riot, Dogmatika, Opium, and Vain. In his spare time he moderates at The Cult writer’s workshop where they are putting together an anthology with Chuck Palahniuk. He has been an Editor for Colored Chalk (Issue #6 – Waking Up Strange and Issue #9 – Heaven and Hell) and is Co-Editor and Designer at Sideshow Fables. He also writes book reviews and does interviews for The Nervous Breakdown. Visit his blog at What Does Not Kill Me or his book site Transubstantiate for more information.