Victimized (3 page)

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.