Page 178 of Violent Possession
The one on the floor begins to move. Panting, he tries to get up, but shakes his head no. I extend my metal hand—it weighs more than it should—and help the fallen animal to sit up. He smiles at me with an unexpected complicity, as if we had shared a dirty secret. And in a way, we did. We are two men paid to destroy each other’s bodies and also to maintain the farce of respect, of honor, of sport. He calls me “brother”. I just shake my head. I have no brothers. Never have.
The master of ceremonies invades the ring and begins the usual speech. Words like “courage”, “overcoming”, “glory” ricochet around the arena. I learned to deal with this. I know it’s just theater. Everyone knows. But everyone pretends to believe, because the theater is necessary. Without the theater, it all becomes barbarism, and no one wants to look their own hunger for violence in the face.
The defeated champion receives a hug from his coach, someone wipes his face, someone pushes a cold towel against his split temple. He’s already forgetting the defeat, already thinking about the consolation prize, the next fight, the next night. Me too. It’s never enough.
The interviews start right there, in the ring. The reporter is a kid who can barely hide his fear as he approaches. He speaks English with a British accent, asks about strategy, about overcoming adversity, about my plans for the future. I answer on autopilot. Short, telegraphic sentences. I taste metallic blood in my mouth and lick my cracked lip to show my teeth. The kid trembles. He’s probably scared by the possibility that maybe he likes me more than he should.
The TV producers want footage. They ask me to pose with a clenched fist, to smile, to raise the belt that weighs like an iron chain. I’m a statue of flesh and steel, a propaganda machine at their service. They say I’m an icon now. They say I have fans in Asia, in America, even in Africa. They say a lot of things.
I’m led out of the ring, escorted by two security guards who are afraid of me but are paid to pretend they aren’t. They don’t touch me, they don’t dare—direct orders from Alexei, and to this day I don’t know how he found out I don’t like physical contact from strangers—but they clear a path through the cold corridors with the reverence reserved for sharp and dangerous objects.
The backstage air is different: clean, recycled, scented with the disinfectant freshness that only hospitals and morgues possess. The walls are a clinical white, and the automatic doors open to reveal doctors and nurses in neat uniforms, trained to never stare at anyone for too long. Violence is routine, but no one likes to look at it head-on.
My recovery suite awaits me at the end of the hall, luxurious and aseptic, decorated like a five-star hotel disguised as an infirmary. Thick, white towels, stacked in symmetrical pyramids. A giant TV broadcasting replays of the event in real time, with animated graphics and slow-motion shots glorifying every punch I let slip through. In the corner, a minibar overflowing with translucent bottles of imported water,premium energy drinks, and organic snacks packed in matte plastic.
I sit on the marble bench, my muscles pulsing in anticipation of relief, and only then do I feel the real weight of exhaustion.
The blood runs viscous down my mechanical arm, forming tiny pools that dry before they touch the floor. A nurse approaches and starts cleaning the blood without saying a word.
Then, the door bursts open without ceremony. My peace is shattered. Marcus has become a living caricature, a hurricane in a shiny purple suit, white leather shoes, and gold chains that swing with a profane clatter. The smell of sweet cologne and expensive whiskey invades the room even before his voice, which arrives a few decibels above what’s permissible for normal humans.
“MY BOY! MY CHAMPION!” He gestures as if he could palpate his own enthusiasm, jumping from side to side with an energy that would make a border collie envious. His smile is wide, indecent, and his front tooth gleams gold under the artificial light. “Did you see that? Did you see that Ukrainian’s face? He didn’t know if he’d been hit by a train or by God! It was sublime, sublime, sublime!”
He approaches, ignoring the nurse and circling me, his restless hands looking for something to hold: a glass, a towel, my own arm, which he examines with a mixture of fascination and revulsion. Marcus has always had this strange relationship with my prosthesis.
He kisses the top of my head and then steps back to admire the scene.
“You have no idea what you just did, stumpy. There are people from China, from the Emirates, even an American who wants to take you to Vegas! They want posters, they want your signature, they want to make action figures of you. You’ve becomea product,my boy! Finally!”
I stare at Marcus without reacting, letting him pour out the torrent of words. He doesn’t wait for an answer, he never does. The speech is for himself, an ego-feeding monologue.
One of the doctors approaches, trying to examine my dislocated shoulder. Marcus shoos the man away with an imperial gesture.
“You’re the name of the night, Griffin.”
I shake my head, slowly. I accept the doctor’s examination, who comes back and handles my flesh-and-bone arm with the delicacy of a watchmaker, while Marcus takes the remote control and turns up the TV volume until the room vibrates with the cheers of the crowd. He starts narrating the replay like a 1980s radio announcer, interrupting himself to comment on my “technical level”, my “predator’s stance”, my “marketable psychopath face”. He repeats catchphrases, analyzes the slow-motion replay, underlines every drop of blood that jumps from the screen.
“Did you see that, Griff? Did you see how he fell? This is going to go viral tomorrow, I guarantee it! It’ll be a meme, it’ll be a story to tell in bars, people will get tattoos of your face. And the women, Griff… the women! You wouldn’t believe what these women would do to have you for one night. The blonde in the front row almost fainted when you smiled at her. Almostfainted! And the brunette in the VIP box, that Russian billionaire’s daughter? She gave me her number, said she wants to ‘congratulate the champion personally’.”
He makes an obscene gesture with his hands, then laughs loudly with his own joke.
“Tonight we’re drowning this place in champagne, you hear me? It’s your night as king! The night you stop being an animal and become a legend!”
I let out a low laugh. He, with all his talk of women and parties, has no idea that the only person I feel like kneeling for is the boss.
And, as if summoned by the devil,heappears.
I see him first in the reflection on the TV. A dark, motionless silhouette in the doorway. Alexei. He makes no sound. Just stands there, watching the scene.
In the time it takes me to turn my head and actually face the door, the atmosphere has already undergone a chemical mutation. The nurse, who was previously dabbing peroxide on my arm, is now rigid, her eyes lost in the infinite. The doctor, a guy with a proto-Stalinist mustache, holds a bandage halfway to the cut and seems to be silently praying not to be noticed.
And Marcus, poor guy, is still living in the previous timeline, the one where he is the epicenter of the room.
“We’ll take the blonde and the brunette, take them to the presidential suite at that fancy hotel. I’ve already booked it! They can give you a bath, lick your wounds, you know? They like that, this thing about taking care of the wounded animal. It’s a fetish! We’ll have a champion’s orgy, Griff! Imagine the headlines!”
He gestures, sketching in the air like a crazed conductor, his golden smile wider than ever, saliva flying on the high notes.
Alexei lifts his chin, a minimal movement. The doctor is the first to understand. He drops everything. He doesn’t dare look back.
