Page 16 of Shame

It’s almost a physical ache. I have never seen such a battered human being in my life, and a tiny woman no less. I fume as I make my way back home, my heart pounding with each step. It’s still early morning, but I’m too riled up to sleep. Her naked little body, the swellings, the ugly bruises, she could barely open her left eye, the dark specks of dried blood, her chafed wrists… It all runs on repeat in my mind.

Downing a second cup of coffee, I then change clothes, pull on my trainers and hit the streets. It takes me forty minutes to reach the dojo. I run faster, harder, than I’ve ever done before, and still she follows me everywhere I go.

Carmen.

Last night, she was so beautiful, and so scared. Today… I try not to think. It won’t do me any good to rage against Salvatore and his men. I’ll end up decapitated in a ditch. If I want to climb the ladder, I’m gonna have to shut the fuck up and do what they tell me. I’ll never, fucking never, raise my hand against a woman, though. They’d have to kill me.

Drenched in sweat, I enter the silent dojo. It’s in the basement of a building marked for demolition and we’re soon going to have to find another place. I like it here, especially at odd hours. Taking off my shoes, I pay my respects and then go to find whoever must be here.

Rodriguez sits in the tiny kitchenette, nurturing a foul-smelling cup of coffee.

“Hey man,” he says. “What’s up? I’m so fucking hungover— Dude, you look like shit. What happened?”

I don’t know what to say. I can never tell anyone the truth about what I witness. Ever. “Some shit went down,” I mumble. “We got any Advil, or something?”

He tilts his head. “Should be in the med locker. Wanna spar?”

I look him over. He does look like shit. “You up for that?”

“Yeah, man. I need to sweat it out.”

I find what I’m looking for and toss two pills in my mouth, sticking my head under the faucet to lap up some water.

“Grab a couple of mitts then and buckle up,” I say after I’ve swallowed the medicine.

Rodriguez studies me as he ties back his long, black hair and follows me to the small open space where all the action happens. I feel his gaze on me. I know he has questions. There’s a darkness in me this morning and it shows.

During the next half hour, I go at him with kicks and fists. I throw him to the carpet over and over. We’re both drenched in sweat, panting heavily, when he slaps his palm against the floor.

“I’m done for, mate,” he gasps.

I give him my hand and pull him up. We pay our respects and he pats my back.

“Man, you’re vicious.”

I feel a lot better. The images have paled. Fighting roots me in the now and it’s exactly what I need to survive.

“Still hung over?”

He shakes his head. “Gone. All good. I was gonna help a pal move today. Not sure I can even lift a plant now.”

I laugh. “Sure you can.”

It’s Sunday. Nothing happens. I stare at the wall, and the chipped paint on the doorpost.

On Monday I have a burst of inspiration and decide to do something about it. I buy a can of white paint and get to it.

Tuesday night I get the call I’ve been waiting for. For two years, I’ve dreamt of this moment.

It’s Sean.

“We got a thing for ya.”

My heart rate picks up. “When?”

“Eleven.”

“Tonight?”

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