Fighting Wrath

by Jennifer Miller

  Talk carries on around me, but it all sounds muffled. People come up and slap me on the back, wishing me luck and making various comments about my opponent. People love giving advice and trying to be helpful, but I just nod absently at all of them, not really hearing any of it.

  Can Nikki possibly be right? Why would she say that to me? She’s probably just trying to rile me up. Maybe she bet against me tonight so she’s trying to screw with my head.

  “Alright, ladies and gents, it’s that time. Thanks for joining us for tonight’s fight.”

  That’s all I hear as he continues to ramble on with our names, weights and all the other bullshit. Mechanically I make my way to the center and shake hands with Nico the Nailer, named apparently because he nails his opponents hard with his jabs, and prepare to fight.

  When the fight begins, we circle each other and I do my best to stay focused. I land a couple jabs, but then flashes of Sydney in the arms of some douche appear in my mind and I struggle with being in the moment. When Nico jabs with his left fist, I duck, but I’m not quick enough to avoid the next punch that hits me square in the jaw as I pop back up. Tasting the coppery tang of blood in my mouth, I spit it out onto the ground. Shaking my head hoping to shake lose the unwanted thoughts and get my head back in the game, I throw a shot out and lose my balance when he ducks and I completely miss.

  The momentum spins me around, but I quickly face him again and do my best to keep moving. Avoiding his next three jabs I think I’ve finally got this. That is until Sydney appears in my mind out of nowhere again, this time kissing someone else. I take a hard shot to my stomach, and lose my breath. Gasping for air and feeling truly pissed off now, I want to end this. The pain in my jaw and gut don’t even remotely compare to the pain in my chest right now from these fucked up thoughts I’m having.

  Diving at Nico’s knees, trying to bring him to the ground, I leave myself wide open, but the risk is hopefully worth the reward if I can get him down. Any further thoughts leak from my mind like water when thunder strikes the side of my head with a massive boom. Vaguely, as if having an out of body experience, I feel myself falling to the ground.

  There’s an annoying feeling on the side of my face. Ignoring it, I continue to remain in this blissful state of nothing, until it becomes more persistent.

  “Tyson!”

  My eyes flutter open, then shut again wanting to avoid the bright light behind them. “Tyson!” someone annoyingly calls again.

  “What?” I think I mumble.

  “Tyson, open your eyes!”

  Obeying, I open my eyes and try to concentrate on the person floating in the air above me. Tyson! Tyson! How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “Yeah, you’re going to be fine,” Eli mutters. Ryder’s face joins Eli’s above me.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “You got knocked the fuck out, that’s what happened!” Eli says.

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. Seriously.”

  “He’s right man. You got beat the fuck up,” Ryder adds unhelpfully as if Eli’s words weren’t clear enough.

  Trying to glare at him, but then wincing at the pain in my head, he chuckles and the two of them help me up and hold on tight as I wobble on my feet. With one on either side of me, they wrap an arm around each other’s shoulders and help me walk – or more accurately carry me with my feet slightly dragging on the ground under me- slowly to Eli’s truck. Once there, they help me inside and even buckle me up, but I don’t care. Resting my head on the back of his seat, I close my eyes and do my best to keep the nausea I feel at bay.

  The next morning, I feel like utter hell when I open my eyes. I vaguely remember Eli and Ryder helping me home, and even putting me to bed. Squinting at the table next to me trying to find my phone to see what time it is, I see a glass of water and a bottle of ibuprofen sitting there. It had to be Ryder, bless him; having never fought, Eli wouldn’t think of it. Thank fuck for Ryder.

  Popping the pills and swallowing them down quickly, I bury my face back in the pillow, close my eyes tightly, and intend to fall back asleep, hoping the pain will fade while I’m out cold. That is until I remember the whole reason I got my ass kicked in the first place. Shooting up into a sitting position, head slamming in protest, Nikki’s words replay in my mind. Grabbing my phone, I try to call Sydney and throw it down in frustration when she doesn’t answer.

  Looking at the time, I realize it’s still early yet and decide to take a chance. Getting out of bed as quickly as possible while holding my head and body in a rigid posture, I shuffle into the bathroom and hurry through a shower and dress as fast as possible. Stopping quickly in my kitchen, I pour coffee from my timed machine into a to-go tumbler and doctor it just the way I like, then get into my truck. Little of the difficulty of the last twenty minutes penetrates my mind; it is fixated on only one thing.

  Driving to Sydney’s I think about what I’m going to say to her. I hope she’s home; I have no idea what her work schedule is. In fact, we’ve never talked about it at all. I mean, I guess it’s not a big deal. When I call her and we get together, we make it work, but I’ve never really asked her where she is or what she’s doing right then. Am I possessive? Yes. Is she mine? Hell fucking yes. Does that mean I want to care if she dates around? Hell yes. Am I willing to share her with anyone? Hell no. But, a relationship is supposed to be built on trust, and she’s never given me a reason not to trust her, so that’s why Nikki’s suggestion is even more ridiculous today than it was when she said it last night.

  Feeling the need to talk to Sydney immediately about what Nikki said, I find myself driving faster. Laying it all out on the table and asking her straight out seems like the right thing to do. I’m not going to borrow trouble here. I’ve got enough other shit to muddle through as it is.

  Just as I turn down the corner towards Syd’s complex, I see movement in front of her car. Pulling to the side of the road, I watch as Sydney gets into her car and goes down the road away from me. I dig my phone out of my pocket and try to call her again, but she doesn’t answer.

  Before I can think twice, I take off after her and follow her. Trying my hardest not to read into the fact she’s ignoring my calls, I talk myself out of feeling bad for doing this. Really, it’s not my business. But she is, so maybe that makes it mine. And I have to get this settled. I can’t stop, can’t pull over or quit following. Feeling a moment of hesitation, I tell myself to keep a discreet distance and even try to call her again. It rings a few times before her voicemail picks up. Shit.

  When she turns into a place I’ve never heard of, I pull in after, parking at the far side of a lot beside a car, but where I can still see her and watch her park her car and proceed to enter a large building. There’s nothing unusual about it; it’s the typical tan stucco that’s rampant in Arizona. Big glass doors open automatically at her approach and she disappears inside. I have no idea what Orange Grove Lane is, but I’m determined to find out.

  A few minutes later, I’m standing in the foyer looking around in confusion. I’m not waiting long before a woman appears, “Hi honey, I’m Mabel. I haven’t seen you here before. How can I help you?”

  Noticing her blue scrubs, hair piled on her head and glasses perched on her nose, I try to ascertain what kind of place I’ve walked into, but have no idea. “Hi. I’m looking for Sydney. She beat me here and I need to meet up with her,” I state confidently. She may tell me to get the hell out of here but I’m going to act like I know what the hell I’m doing.

  Without missing a beat she says, “Oh, honey, any ‘ole friend of that sweet girl’s a friend of mine. She didn’t tell me anyone else was comin’.”

  Shrugging, I give her one of my best smiles, hoping it looks genuine. “Sorry about that. She must have forgotten.”

  “Well it’s no wonder. She’s got a lot on her plate, doesn’t that one? She went on back to his room, you can go ahead.”

  His room? I don’t like t
he sound of that. At all. I have a feeling this may get ugly. I take a step forward and then stop, “Can you remind me what the room number is, please? She told me, but I’ve forgotten.”

  “Of course, darlin’.” She tells me and even gives me directions. Nodding I smile and head where she’s directed.

  Trepidation washes over me, making my gut churn and sweat break out in little beads on my forehead. More than anything I wish I had the strength to turn around and just ask her about this. Or better yet, not ask her and wait for her to tell me herself. Assuming she ever will. But I can’t. I hate myself for it, but I can’t.

  “Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

  Forced from my thoughts, I’m struck at the appearance of the woman hanging in the doorway of what must be her room. She’s wearing shorts and a shirt covered in dogs wearing… is that lipstick? And hats? Her hair is in pink curlers and her face is caked in makeup. Bright pink furry slippers complete the look and I’m sure my eyes are wide as I take her in. “Hello,” I nod to her and keep going, but I stop when she keeps talking.

  “What room are you moving into, honey? I’m going to tell them to move my room right next to yours, because fuck you sure are a handsome young man. How are your muscles that big anyway? Do you work out?”

  Gasping in surprise and then choking back a laugh, I can’t believe this very elderly woman just dropped an f-bomb on me. And came on to me. I’m not sure if I should laugh or run.

  “Yes, ma’am I work out and sorry, I’m not moving in. Just visiting.”

  “Well damn,” she mutters under her breath as I walk away and that has to be one of the most bizarre things that has ever happened to me.

  Turning around the corner, I make my way down the hall where Sydney is supposed to be. As I get closer, I see a guy sitting on a bench in the hallway. He looks up from something he’s reading as I approach. “Did you know that King Tut’s penis was mummified erect?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He shrugs and looks back at his book. I don’t know what the hell he’s reading, but I do not want a copy. What the hell? Keeping the corner of my eye on him as I walk by, I come to the room Sydney’s supposed to be in.

  Staring at it for several beats, I try to psych myself up to open the door. “You’re supposed to turn that silver knob right there,” dude with weird penis facts tells me. I nod my head at him absently, and continue to stare at the door.

  Knowing I should knock, I don’t. If there is something to see here, I want to see it in real time. Not after I’ve alerted them to my presence. As hard as it may be, I deserve the truth.

  Turning the knob slowly, when it stops I quietly push open the door.

  What I see when it’s open, stops my heart in my chest.

  Sydney’s sitting on the couch next to some guy. There’s a TV on in front of them, and she has her head on his shoulder. There’s a bowl of popcorn between them and they laugh when their hands touch over the bowl.

  Fury starts to burn throughout my body, making my hands clench and my breaths come faster. Doing my best to speak without yelling, I firmly ask, “What. The. Fuck?”

  Sydney’s head turns so fast in my direction, it’s amazing it doesn’t fall off her shoulders. The look of guilt all over her face says it all.

  Words fail me as I see Tyson standing in the doorway to Sammy’s room. Many questions immediately come to mind while my brain tries to make sense of what I’m seeing. What is he doing here? How did he find me? Oh god, will he leave me like the others now? And what the hell is wrong with his face?

  “Ty- Ty-,” I stutter over my words.

  “I repeat. What the hell is this?” His posture is rigid, fists clenched at his sides, his jaw is tight and anger radiates from every pore.

  “What happened to you?” I ask referring to the bruises on the side of his face.

  “How about you go first,” he says sarcastically.

  “This isn’t what you think,” I tell him gesturing to Sammy and me.

  He laughs sardonically, “Funny, that’s exactly what I’d expect you to say.”

  “No,” I start to reiterate my denial, but know that there’s only one way for him to understand. Grabbing Sammy by the arm, I pull him up and take him to stand in front of Tyson. Tyson looks from me to Sammy and back again in blatant confusion.

  “Tyson, I’d like for you to meet my brother, Sammy. Sammy, this is Tyson. He’s a very special friend of mine.”

  Sammy looks Tyson over for a moment before breaking out into a grin. “Hi, Tython. Wanna watch the ball game with us?”

  Tyson looks at Sammy, then at me, and I can see something softening in his face. Looking back at Sammy, he holds a hand out for him to shake. “Hi Sammy. It’s nice to meet you. I’d love to watch the ball game with you, but can I go talk to your sister for a few minutes?”

  Sammy nods his hand and then shrugs, “Okay. I wait here.” Then he walks back to the couch and returns his attention to the game. Tyson watches him and I try to read his face. I look for the typical disgust, uncomfortable silence, any of the things that I’ve seen before, but he shows none of it. Taking his arm, I lead him out the door closing it softly behind us and then take him out the back door of the building. Before shutting it all the way, I put a tiny stopper in the door so it doesn’t lock behind us, then lean against the wall.

  I attempt to build up the nerve to have this conversation, trying to find the words to explain, but Tyson beats me to it.

  “Why would you hide this? Him? I don’t understand.”

  I can’t look him in the face. I feel ashamed. Not only for lying to Tyson, but I feel ashamed for the tiny bit of myself that was embarrassed to tell him about Sammy. Embarrassed and scared. I don’t want him to feel sorry for us, for our past selves, or now, and I also don’t want to lose him. But, I know two things, if I want my relationship with Tyson to go anywhere; I need to be honest, in more ways than one. And two, if he can’t deal with this, it’s better to know now.

  Before I can open my mouth to respond, I’m startled to feel Tyson’s fingers under my chin, urging my face up so my eyes meet his. Resigned, taking a large inhale and then exhale, I gesture to the table and two chairs to the left of us that the staff keeps here for breaks. We take a seat and with a second deep breath, I dive in.

  “My parents were dead beats. They were both big drinkers and while my mom would get drunk and forget about us or sleep all day and throw insults at us, my dad would get abusive. He was a sick son of a bitch when he drank.”

  I pause and Tyson grits his teeth, but waits for me to continue.

  “I became really good at covering my bruises. For the most part he left me alone when Sammy was around because he’d use Sammy as a punching bag instead. But Sammy couldn’t be there all the time, you know?” Tyson nods grimly and I look away to gather myself before continuing. It’s been a long, long time since I’ve had to tell this story.

  “My mom never did anything. She would literally turn her head when the hitting began. I think it was her way to try to become invisible, hoping that he would at least leave her alone. It almost felt like they would team up against us sometimes. It was always worse when she would laugh at us. Thinking his abuse was funny. What kind of mom does that?” I ask him the question rhetorically. “When I was sixteen and Sammy almost eighteen, my parents had a bender that lasted for days. We were used to getting ourselves up and out the door to school; we’d been counting down the days until Sammy turned eighteen because he wanted to apply to be my legal guardian and get us out of there. Anyway, sometimes we had to forage trashcans for food or, when we were luckier, trusted friends that knew our situation would bring some for us to school. Other times we would steal food from my parents when they bought it and rarely, very rarely, we would actually sneak some change found in the couch or such places and save it to purchase needed items, like milk, bread and the like. Most of the time they were too drunk or drugged up to notice. But, on May second at six eighteen in the evening, my dad
came barreling into Sammy’s room while we were sitting together eating some lunch meat and cheese he’d snuck from the refrigerator under my dad’s nose. My mom was gone somewhere, probably getting them more alcohol, and it was just us and my dad at home.”

  “I’m sorry, Sydney. I’m so sorry,” he starts telling me, but I just shake my head trying to push away his words. He doesn’t even know the worst part yet.

  “Lunch meat and cheese, Tyson. That’s all. It wasn’t like we stole money, or their beloved alcohol and drugs. We were just hungry.” I begin to get choked up and I swipe at the tears that have begun to run down my face. When I feel Tyson’s thumb brush my cheek trying to make the evidence of my pain disappear, it gives me the courage to continue.

  “He came into the room and started yelling at us. I knew he would take it out on Sammy, so I stood up to him. I told him that I took the food and that if they bothered to feed us once in a while we wouldn’t have to take it from them. What I didn’t expect was for him to hit me. He backhanded me across the face. Hard. Before that he’d always pushed me, grabbed me hard leaving bruises, or would shake me. One time he pulled my hair when I walked away from him before he wanted me to. He yanked me back by my head, but he’d never hit me, only Sammy. Until then. I remember falling to the ground as if in slow motion. I lay there and I remember staring at this pink teddy bear that Sammy had bought for me. It fell under my bed, and I remember thinking, oh, that’s where it went.” I look at Tyson without really seeing him. In my mind I see the pink teddy bear with the stupid bow tie collecting dust bunnies under my bed.

  “It’s like it took a few minutes for me to realize what happened. To this day I’m not sure if I actually blacked out for a bit or what.” And with the spoken words, it’s as if I can see it all again. Blood trickling from the corner of my mouth, my eyes burning with tears, and the burning of my face where flesh met flesh. I still remember the crimson splashes of my blood staining the bedroom floor as I finally lifted my head up and struggled to get to my feet. “And suddenly, there was this persistent thumping across the room and I…”