The plain white bathtub was full of hot water. She let her head drift downward until everything but her nose was beneath the surface of the water. She closed her eyes. She waited for the symphony. She waited for the beat to play. It hummed a mournful song for mankind.
People were often coming and going. They flew by in their own time. She never really cared for people. They were always so predictably human. They were always poor, broken beings— with abandonment issues, obsessive disorders, facial tics, speech impediments, addictions, religions, normality. She would often watch these symptoms of humanity with contempt. There were so many symptoms, so difficult to ignore.
Her first memory of him was of an email. Then, she had suspected he was just another metrosexual of the modern world with a severely heavy wallet. His words were meticulously placed. He was punctual and precise, despite the triviality of the topic. Who actually enjoyed eating sushi? A man named Ian Rothcraft did, apparently.
When she first saw him, she lost all but who she was. When she first saw the monstrous smile spread across his porcelain teeth, he became like an illness to her. It was the sudden intuition to run away that poisoned her first. It was the beating in her chest like the ticking of a bomb; it was the birth of disaster. Behind carefully executed movements and the gestures of a gentleman lay so much wickedness. Within that very wickedness, she found freedom.
At first, he was an interest. It didn't take long before interest became addiction. There wasn't a moment when he didn't casually grace her thoughts. The danger he represented was like a rapturous drug. And by the time she tasted the first kiss, her addiction had turned into religion. Every element of him, his body, his very name, had been transformed into a prayer. That prayer repeated itself every day. It repeated itself until it became normality.
Losing him was the first time she ever felt like she had been reduced to humanity. It was the first time she ever felt the torment of being human. Pain was the most important symptom of humanity. And now, as she buried herself between the plain white walls of a bathtub… there was nothing more than a constant, dull ache.
Sabra’s hands trembled as she held the letter. It wasn’t a motion of emotion. It was simply something that had been occurring often. The words lay upon the page like happy decorations, written by a distant mother. It was a letter Samantha Gibson had written a year before she shot a bullet into her own brain. Sabra stood in silence as her eyes absorbed the first line.
My Dearest Sabra,
Sabra’s fingers jerked and spread apart with an involuntary action. The white paper fell gently to the ground. The wind picked it up and lazily nudged it away. Sabra chased after it and knelt into the dirt. She commanded the breeze to stop. The little white paper reunited with her hands. She stood and continued to read the carefully written words.
I remember the day you were born. I was in labor for fourteen hours. Then, suddenly, you were in my arms and all of the pain went away. You were fat and pink and perfect. The first time I saw your eyes look into mine, I knew my world would never be the same. You were mine, and I was yours.
I just about lost my mind every time you fell ill. And you did, often. Each time, my heart shattered for you. I wanted to take away your pain. I stayed awake most nights, just holding you and praying. After your first birthday, you didn’t get sick anymore. You were happy, and so beautiful. I cherished your crooked-toothed grins.
You were two and a half when Nana passed away. She died from Huntington’s disease. I never told your father, and I couldn’t tell you until now—but I watched that woman dissolve away for years until she died. I couldn’t do anything to stop it. And when I found out there was a fifty percent chance that I, too, would dissolve away one day, I just stopped. I stopped being a wife. I stopped being your mother.
I managed to convince myself that if I no longer showed my love, you would stop returning it. But hiding everything made me an angry person. It made me foolish and unkind. For that, I am sorry. I cannot expect you to forgive me. I can only hope that my cruelty had little impact on your soul.
The last word of that sentence had been long smudged by a drop of liquid. Sabra stared at it for a while. Then she slowly flipped the paper over and continued reading.
Your father died alone. At the time, I couldn't even remember the last time I had told him I loved him. To this day, I find it hard to forgive myself for what I did to that man. I abandoned him. I abandoned the first person I ever loved. I abandoned the man who gave me you. You both deserved so much better.
Although I warranted rotting in my own guilt, I met someone who saved me from myself. He will never be your father, but he is a good man. I am learning how to love again—without hiding. I am writing this letter, seven months pregnant, and hoping that I can do it all right this time around.
A few weeks ago it was confirmed that I inherited my mother’s Huntington’s disease. I expect I only have about ten more years on this earth. I am terrified, but I want to remain strong. I have faith that I can face my death with dignity. With the little time that I have, I want to do the best I can to be a better mother. There are things I need to say to you while I still can, things I should have said a long time ago.
You are gorgeous, Sabra. You are rich with spirit. Take that spirit and mold it into something that will shake this world to its core. You are a genius, Sabra. You have always been smarter than me. You have always been wiser. Take that wisdom and spin it into gold. And most importantly—you are full of love, my darling. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. If you feel even an ounce love in your heart for someone, share it. Don’t hide it away. Don’t be afraid of those three words. Say them, every day.
I love you.
Sabra shivered. She could almost hear her mother’s voice. It was the first time she would hear those words spoken by her mother. It was the last time. Sabra turned around like a spectral being. Her gaze caught a man’s lips as he spoke.
“She just couldn’t do it anymore,” Adam voice shook as he wiped a tear away. He shifted with the baby in his arms.
Sabra did not know much about the man her mother recently called “husband.” She knew that he was younger than her father. She knew that he was a doctor. But she didn’t know much else beyond the sadness she saw in his eyes.
“I’m sorry for what she did to you when you last visited,” he spoke softly as the baby cried, “her mind was crumbling.”
Sabra approached her half-sister and planted a kiss on the baby’s forehead. For a brief moment, the infant girl stopped crying. Perhaps breathless with confusion, perhaps somehow spiritually comforted by woman she barely knew.
“This is yours,” Adam announced, pulling a car key from his pocket. His hand reached out with a quiver.
Sabra’s palm waited beneath the metal and caught it with a dead suspension. Her fingers closed around it. She nodded to the man and the baby. She turned around and walked toward the ’71 Charger, a key in one hand and a wrinkled letter in the other.
It happened again. Sabra’s fingers jerked and spread apart with an involuntary action, dropping the key. She retrieved it from the mud and stood, calming herself. She unlocked the black door with the silver key. And like she and the car had never been apart, Sabra slid inside with the same fluid progression. She slapped the letter to the dashboard. She caught one of the final sentences again.
Don’t be afraid of those three words.
Sabra started the ignition. She adjusted her seat, the mirror. Quickly, she reversed and sped away. She had something she needed to say to someone.
It had been six years since she last sat behind the wheel of that gorgeous car. It had been six years since she drove it away from her father’s funeral. Then, it would be so ironic that she would drive it away from her mother’s. The same road spat dust at the wheels. The same road directed Sabra on toward the future her mother told her to make for herself.
The sun was setting with a coral hue. Sabra felt a kind of peace washing over her, baptizing her anew. She was about a day away from Manhattan. She was a day away from the one person she craved most. The highway was quiet. She was listening to a song she didn’t recognize.
And then it happened again. Her hands jerked and shifted with an involuntary action.
“No, not now,” Sabra thought before her body collided, head first, with the shattering glass of the windshield.
Across the room, Grace did a naked pirouette in front of the mirror. She was thin and pale and magnificent. Sabra sat on the floor with her back against the wall. She watched Grace and chewed on sixteen milligrams of hydromorphone.
“Pretty, isn’t she?” Ebony spoke in her usual malignant manner.
Sabra packed her Lucky Strikes on the ground. “Sure, when her mouth isn't open,” she jeered through busy teeth.
Ebony gave a false titter. “She was a dancer before Daddy found her.”
Sabra could hear Ebony mumble the words “And I’m going to kill her,” but she pretended not to notice. Sabra said nothing and opened her pack of cigarettes. She greedily snatched one between her index finger and her thumb.
“Need a light?” Ebony asked suddenly and turned her black eyes toward Sabra.
Sabra placed the cigarette to her mouth and turned to Ebony. She stopped for a few seconds to look at the girl’s face. Ebony had a scar along her left eyebrow. Upon further examination, Sabra concluded that the girl wasn't much older than fifteen or sixteen. Ebony picked up her lighter and flicked the metal grinders near the edge of the cigarette. Sabra inhaled and let the smoke cloud into her lungs.
“Grace, you’re up!” A voice called from beyond the door.
Ebony and Sabra looked up simultaneously. They watched as Grace smiled at herself in the mirror and turned to the side. Grace bowed her head at Ebony. The lighter clicked shut and returned to Ebony’s pocket. Grace stood tall and glided through the door.
“She’s going out naked?” Sabra puffed on her Lucky Strike.
Ebony shrugged. “She does that every night.”
They had the “pink” room to themselves. Ebony stood, crossed over to her locker, and pulled out an outdated MP3 player. She sat on a bench in front of Sabra. Sabra looked at her.
“So how old are you anyway?” Sabra asked, blowing out smoke.
“Eighteen,” Ebony spoke sharply as if calling out a correct answer in math class. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” Sabra alleged mockingly. She grinned and touched the cigarette to her lips.
There was no retort from Ebony. They were both quiet for a time. Ebony stared at Sabra as if studying some kind of alien creature. Sabra kept to herself. She pulled the sapphire ring from her right pocket and tried it on different fingers. She placed it on the tip of her thumb and spun it around. It twinkled with each rotation.
“You can’t keep it,” Ebony announced.
Sabra looked up at the girl and held the ring still.
“Daddy doesn't let us keep nice things around,” Ebony explained. She touched her collar bone. “I would know…”
Sabra crushed the end of the cigarette against the floor and flicked it across the room. She pulled the ring away from her thumb and carefully slid it onto her left ring finger. She stared at it as it rested perfectly in its place.
Ebony couldn't remain silent. “Is it special?” She pried.
“Very.” Sabra traced the edges of the stone with her eyes.
“Where did you get it?”
Sabra pulled her gaze away from the blue stone and tilted her head back until it rested against the wall. “From an old friend,” she answered after taking in a breath.
“Did your friend die?”
“No.”
“Then why are they an old friend?”
“We just don’t see each other anymore.” Sabra closed her eyes and rubbed her face, hoping the interrogation would end.
“You should go visit them, then.” Ebony declared.
Sabra let out a small chuckle at the statement. If she had just gone to visit him a month ago… The thought dropped through her brain and landed brutally in her stomach. Sabra reached into her left pocket and pulled out another tablet of hydromorphone. She hastened it to her mouth. The bitterness was like an “old friend.”
“What are those pills you keep taking?” Ebony interrogated again.
“Aspirin,” Sabra chewed and smirked, “I have a bad back.”
“You shouldn't take so many. Magnesium in Aspirin dilates blood vessels and acts like a natural blood thinner. It can also deplete the lining of your stomach over time… So you could bleed to death via the brain, or the stomach. ” Ebony turned into a human encyclopedia.
“You’re a very smart girl,” Sabra announced. “Why are you here?”
“You’re a very pretty girl,” Ebony reported. “Why are you here?”
Sabra smiled and Ebony smiled back. The room fell silent. Sabra watched the young girl turn on the MP3 player. It lit up dimly as Ebony scrolled through a list of songs and picked one. She put the ear-buds to her ears and closed her eyes. It was funny how she sat there, straight and still. Sabra was curious as to what could make Ebony so noiseless.
“What are you listening to?” Sabra called out and gestured.
The ear-buds came off. Ebony put them in her lap. “I Put A Spell On You.”
“By?”
“Nina Simone.”
“You…” Sabra proclaimed, “… are one cool kid.”
Beaming, Ebony returned to listening to the song. It was then that Sabra realized how different Ebony was when Grace wasn’t around. She wondered what it was that made her detest Grace so much. Sabra turned and watched the clock for several minutes until the door opened again.
Grace walked in, her nude body drenched in sweat and blood. Ebony pretended to be oblivious. A voice called from beyond the doorway with congratulations and praise. Grace waved and stumbled to her locker. She took out a towel and staggered back toward the doorway.
“I’m going to go rinse off,” Grace gurgled between bloody gums.
A man passed Grace and entered the room. He was carrying a black sequin cocktail dress. He held up the dress and looked at Sabra. “This is for you, Doozy. You’re up next.”
Sabra stood gradually and scoffed, “A costume?”
“Mr. M said to dock sixty percent of your pay if you don’t put it on.”
“He wants me… to fight… in a dress?”
The man nodded matter-of-factly.
Sabra chuckled. “Does he want me to wear heels with it, too?”
“Shoes are optional.”
“Why doesn't Grace wear a dress?” Sabra stretched her brows and slowly approached him.
The man eyed Sabra from the legs up. “Because Grace has bigger tits and a higher-quality ass,” he spoke cattily.
Sabra pointed at the dress as she got closer. “Give it here.”
The dress was thrown into the air. It slapped Sabra in the face and fell at her feet. The man exited and slammed the door.
“FIVE MINUTES!” He yelled.
Sabra took off her shirt and folded it. She placed it on the bench beside her. She looked down at her chest. She always wanted bigger breasts. It bothered her briefly, but the hydromorphone made her forget. She kicked until both of her shoes did flips toward the wall. She unbuttoned her jeans and folded them on top of her shirt. Her bare feet slipped into the center into the dress, and she pulled it up around her body. It reminded her of a dress she wore to Maine once.
“Zip me?” Sabra turned to Ebony.
Ebony stood and walked over obediently. Sabra faced away and waited until the zipper reached the top of the dress. She looked down at her hand and pulled the ring off of her finger. She hesitated.
“I’ll take good care of it,” Ebony said and picked up Sabra’s clothes from the bench.
With apprehension, Sabra placed the ring on top of the jeans. She wasn't sure if she trusted the girl, but she had no other choice. It all made her kind of dizzy.
“Oh!” Sabra reached into the pocket of the jeans and pulled out a white pill. She stuffed it into her bra. “For after.”
“You’ll need it.” Ebony sighed.
Sabra straightened herself as her clothes were gently taken to a locker to be shut away. Ebony then returned to her previous seat and picked up her MP3 player. Sabra looked at her.
“How do you do it?” Sabra was interested.
Ebony looked up and shrugged. “We usually just imagine we’re trying to murder the person we hate most.”
“Who do you imagine?”
Ebony pointed at Grace’s usual spot. Sabra snickered. She looked down at the slit in the dress and groaned. She grabbed each side of the slit and ripped it up to her hip. Better. Sabra drew in a deep breath and saluted Ebony before walking through the door.
It was a short walk to hell. The lights were low. The smell of blood was dense. A crowd stood apart from the center of the room. Their noises and voices hummed around in Sabra’s ear like a mosquito. A man made his way to the middle of the room. He did not waste any time. There were no flavorful words spoken. There were only brief introductions. It was Doozy versus a woman called Spider.
Sabra looked at her toes. The floor was slimy. She followed the red slime until her eyes met the bare feet of the girl ahead. The right one inched forward. Sabra blinked and tried to focus on the redhead’s face. The odors of the room swam around and tickled her nostrils. Hazy films spread over her eyes like translucent eyelids. She blinked them away.
Spider jerked to the right, then to the left. She scuttled forward like a cockroach does when someone turns a light on. Before Sabra could react, the redhead had washed over her like a wave. Sabra’s head hit the floor, and she felt the wet of the blood on the back of her neck. Her legs shot up around her tiny opponent.
The girl’s forearm pressed weightily against Sabra’s throat. Sabra choked. She lay there, beneath the light, and stared into the whiteness. She thought about letting it happen. She thought about giving in. Then she heard the howling of the onlookers; she changed her mind. They came for a show, and they would get one.
Sabra wrapped her legs tightly around Spider. Her right hand grabbed the fist of the arm pressing against her neck. She wrapped her left arm around the girl’s head. Sabra managed to shift the girl over. She looked down at her.
“Yeshʹ derʹmo,” Sabra spat through her reddened face. Ivan had taught her that phrase. It was not a kind phrase.
Sabra shoved Spider’s fist, aiming it at the carotid artery. It popped the girl in the throat. It was such a violent thrust that the redhead gave out an intense cough. Stop hitting yourself, Sabra thought. Her mouth stretched with a childish grin.
And then the girl’s free arm swung back. The punch crashed against Sabra’s skull like a misfired bowling ball. Sabra hurled over. The blow was like nothing she had ever felt, even with the pain killers swishing through her brain. The two women lay on the floor, side by side. The air was thick, and the audience buzzed like bees. Gradually, both women rose like ghouls.
Sabra’s head rushed as she ascended. Suddenly, everything was gentle. The voices of the audience turned into an orchestra of cellos and pianos. They played for her; they played Gabriel Fauré’s Sicilienne. She saw herself in her childhood home. She saw her mother screaming at her. And though her mother’s mouth moved to form various painful words, Sabra heard only the orchestra of cellos and pianos. She lunged at her mother’s face with her hands. They slashed and hacked away at each other with vengeful fists; they danced together to Sicilienne.
With a crack and a flash, Sabra came to. She was on her back again, writhing around in the pool of red. Sabra felt the sensation of teeth cutting into her left shoulder. Spider was on top of her, kicking with knees. Sabra had to get away. She could feel her own heartbeat just below the spot where teeth drove into her flesh. Her ears deafened to everything but the pulsing of her own heart. She listened to it and let it count for her. Matching the rhythm of the beat, Sabra threw her knuckles into the girl’s neck. She continued until she felt the body ease on top of her.
Sabra shoved Spider away. She lifted herself into a seating position and crawled backwards on the floor. Her heartbeat grew louder and more concentrated than before. She didn't know how much more of the match she could bear. She was drained and ached for the precious end, but the steady drum of her heartbeat spoke to her. It spoke to her in Ian’s voice. It whispered, “Stand… Stand up.”
The two fighters then stood across from one another. They were both arched forward and breathing heavily. They both smelled like iron and sweat. They had been reduced to animals, like two scarlet beasts fighting over a bone. Spider moved first. She closed in on Sabra once more. Sabra shoved her arms forward and dead-stopped the girl with the bottom of her palms. Spider convulsed and slipped backwards on the thickening puddle of blood.
The girl tumbled and collided with the floor. Sabra lunged on top of her. To the steady beat of her heart, she hurled punches into the Spider’s head. She counted the strokes. One, two, three, four, five. She counted them until the face they fractured was no longer a face. She lost count as the numbers became names. Ian, Henry, Ivan, Ebony, Gabe. She recited names in her mind until there were no names left.
An arm reached for her and pulled her away. Sabra stood, hyperventilating. Someone raised her arm into the air. Her ears popped and the sounds of the room rushed back to her. The noise was unbearable at first. Everything was. She looked down at the body lying in the crimson puddle. She wavered. The only thing holding her up was a hand wrapped around her wrist.
“….Did I kill her?” Sabra barely murmured.
She was pushed and prodded to the exit like a sheep being herded to its pen. The dull-looking boy she met days before stood to greet her in the hallway.
“Did I kill her?” Sabra placed her hand on her temple.
The boy simply smiled. It was a sickening grin. He held two objects to her. “Water? Cigarette?”
Sabra fell dizzily into a chair which was so wonderfully placed near the wall. She reached up and took both the water and the cigarette. “Got a light, kid?”
The boy obliged, lighting the cigarette. Sabra waved him off. She rinsed her red fingertips with a bit of water and searched for the white pill in her bra. The pill was dissolving in sweat. She put what she could find into her mouth and washed it down with a sip of water. She sat there alone for a time. She thought about Gabriel Fauré. She thought about her mother. She thought about Ivan. She thought about Ian. She thought about a lifeless woman lying in blood. Her thoughts were like a careful ballet; they swayed before her in the dark.
After she was able to breathe like a normal human being again, Sabra mindlessly grabbed for her little blue ring. It wasn't there. She stood and walked down the corridor, using the wall as a crutch. She found her way to the pink room. The doorknob was cold and felt shocking against her palm. She turned it and walked through.
“I couldn’t stop him,” Grace called from her corner like a child reciting a line in a play. Her nose was buried in a paperback book.
Sabra’s eyes adjusted to the light. She looked ahead and saw Ebony lying over a bench. Her face was badly bruised, and she was unconscious. Sabra fumbled forward and placed two shaking fingers on the young girl’s neck. There was a pulse. Sabra nearly cried in relief.
She turned. Grace sat ignorantly in her spot, reading a cheap novel with a Fabio look-a-like on the cover. Sabra then realized how a young girl could despise Grace so much. She crushed her teeth together. Sabra looked at the lockers. She made her way to Ebony’s and opened it. The jeans and shirt were unfolded. She searched frantically and found no ring. She also found no hydromorphone. Her blood boiled. A new energy grew inside of her. She swung herself at the door.
“What were you thinking about?” Grace abruptly questioned, never once looking up from the book. “During the fight,” she added.
Sabra stepped around the door and leaned in. “What was I thinking?” Her voice turned to ice. “I was thinking, ‘Gee. I hope I get to keep all of my teeth.’” She shut the door with a bang.
Sabra forced herself to remember how to get to Mr. M’s office. She closed her eyes and followed the wall with her fingers. She traced her steps back to when she arrived. It was a mere two turns to the right. A guard stood in front of the door.
“Doozy! Impressive fight tonight, I hear.” The guard shifted.
“Let me speak,” Sabra paused before articulating it, “to Daddy.”
“I’m afraid Mr. M is extremely busy at the moment.”
Sabra clasped her fingers around the guard’s collar. She glared into his eyes as he removed the pistol from his jacket. He pressed the steel barrel to Sabra’s stomach. She pursed her lips and grabbed onto his shoulders. As if everything depended on one motion, she kneed him vigorously in the groin. He coughed. She grabbed his gun. With a careless tap from Sabra’s hand, the guard fell to the floor. She waited with the guard, giving him a short time to recover. She kicked at him and told him to stand. When he finally did, she pointed the pistol at his head.
“In the pink room, there’s girl—badly injured. Take her out of here and get her to a doctor.” Sabra stared at him and waited. “Go! Or I’ll fucking put a bullet into your thick skull!”
The guard looked into her eyes, and she knew he understood. He treaded off as quickly as he could and went left. Sabra turned and looked at the door. She glanced down at her blood-painted body and adjusted the skirt of her dress. She took a breath, cocked the metal hammer of the pistol.
“Oh, Daddy!” She called out as the door swung forward. “It would seem you missed my fight.”
NOTE: This is part of a collection of short stories I've been working on about a female opiate addict named Sabra (pronounced Say-bruh).
---
A tiny bead of sweat began to fall from Sabra’s forehead. It started slow and then it made a sudden dash toward her eyebrow. Sabra blinked and smeared it off. She was dying for a pill. She did her best not to puke on the metal table. Her eyes locked themselves onto the alligator skin cover of a prudently placed briefcase.
“Do you know who I am?” The man’s voice scratched and growled at Sabra.
Sabra shook her head and forced herself to look at him. The dusky man had both of his hands raised at his sides as though he was scaling something invisible. In his left hand, a trail of smoke seethed through the tip of a dark cigar. He looked at her with twinkling eyes and grinned. He pressed the cigar to his mouth and sucked.
“My name is Dominique Manchado,” he hissed with a puff of smoke. His left hand pulled away as he continued. “Most people call me Mister M… But you,” he pointed at Sabra with his pinky and winked, “You may call me Daddy D.”
Sabra forced herself not to gag and spoke. “Let’s just stick with Mister M… For now.”
Dominique nodded and shrugged. “Very well,” he paused and tapped his cigar ash at the floor. “Shall we begin?”
Sabra nodded and grasped at her right pocket. She was relieved to feel the shape of a ring still inside. It comforted her and composed her. She placed her palm over the pocket and left it there.
“Your full name?” Mr. M asked.
“Sabra Lynn Deeds,” she replied robotically.
Mr. M scribbled onto a clipboard and popped the cigar between his lips. “Got ammy mickmames?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Any nicknames,” he repeated after removing the cigar.
“Oh…” Sabra paused. “M-moon.. Pie.”
Mr. M’s eyes flashed upward from the clipboard. He stared at Sabra for a moment. “No… I think,” he stopped to drop the cigar underneath the table. His leather shoe lifted above the cigar and then smashed it. “I think we will call you Doozy,” he finished with a simper.
“Doozy?”
“Cariño, it’s undeniable,” He snickered. “You are a Doozy.”
Sabra’s stomach turned. She gripped herself and waited for more questions.
“Anyone we should contact in case of serious injury, death, etcetera?” The last word shook between Mr. M’s teeth like a rattlesnake’s tail.
“No.”
“No one?” Dominique Manchado was shocked.
Sabra shook her head.
“No parents, no siblings?”
“I said no,” Sabra insisted.
Mr. M’s eyes glowed. He leaned back in his chair. “No fortunate bastard waiting for you at home?”
Sabra gritted her teeth. Her face grew hot. Her blossoming frustration was evident. She did not speak, she only stared at the man in silence.
“Alright,” Mr. M made a quick dash on the page. “No contacts.”
Sabra wiped her sweaty palms on her jeans. She eyed around the room in search for a clock and found nothing. The whole place smelled of sweat and blood. She felt a lump build up inside her throat, and she swallowed.
“Do you have a weapon of choice?” M asked with a wave of his hand.
“Nope,” Sabra choked on the lump in her throat.
“Do you own your own weapons?”
“No.”
“Would you like us to supply you with one?” M leaned in and raised his eyebrows.
Sabra took a moment to register. She blinked slowly and took a deep breath. “I’d like to fight without a weapon.”
“Ah!” M slammed the clipboard on the table and stood sharply. “I don’t normally do this personally, but you are a special case.” He crossed around the table and stood beside Sabra’s seat. He beckoned her with immeasurable pride, “Stand, darling.”
Sabra tilted her head up unsteadily. She pushed herself up from the chair and made herself still.
“If you are going to fight in Class A, we can’t have you cheating, can we?” Manchado smiled and positioned Sabra’s arms straight out to her sides. He paused as if granting some sort of courtesy. “In other words, cariño, I’m going to have to search you.”
Sabra stared at the wall ahead and waited. Mr. M knelt down and slipped his fingers into the opening of her shoes. He slowly rose as he made his way up her legs and thighs until he reached her pockets. He ran his hands over the back pockets first and then over the front. He paused when he found the ring and leisurely pulled it out from hiding. He held it up to the light. Without hesitation, Sabra recovered her ring and drove it back into her pocket with one rapid swipe.
Mr. M pulled away with both of his hands in the air. His face lit with intrigue. He tried to stifle a grin and subtly bowed his head. “May I continue?”
Sabra turned her eyes back to the wall in front of her and resumed the position. M cautiously lowered his hands onto her waist. Sabra closed her eyes and clenched her jaw as his hands found their way to the front of her chest. Mr. M lingered there for a while.
“Thank you, Doozy,” he said as he quickly patted over Sabra’s arms and back. He then walked to the opposite side of the table and collapsed into his chair, full of himself. With glittering eyes, he kissed his fingertips and tossed them into the air.
Sabra took a deep breath and lowered her arms. She sat down and tightly cupped her palm over her right pocket. She twitched.
“Well, do you have any questions for me?” M tapped his fingers on the clipboard.
“How much will I get paid?” Sabra tried to sit up straight. Her stomach and head were both spinning.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether or not you win, my dear.” His greedy fingers kept tapping against the paper. “You only get paid if you win.”
“How much?” Another knot grew inside Sabra’s throat.
“Twenty percent of what I wager.”
Sabra blinked. “How much do you wager?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On how often you win.” Mr. M smiled.
Sabra pushed herself forward and reached out for the pen. M slid it over the table to her. He flipped the page on the clipboard and turned it around so that it faced Sabra. He traced a finger along the fine print.
“This states that neither I nor any of my affiliates, are to be held legally responsible for any injuries or death. And all manners of healthcare must be dealt with on your own accord. This contract is in effect for a minimum of ten Class A fights and will only be terminated prematurely upon your death.” Mr. M tapped his finger on a blank line. “Initial here,” he coughed and then tapped his finger on another line. “Sign here.”
Sabra felt any remnants of her soul crawl away from her and through the tip of the pen as she signed her name. She stared at her name on the page and dropped the pen. It hit the metal table and rolled a few inches forward. Mr. M startled Sabra with a loud, sudden clap.
“Welcome to the London Fight Club, Miss Deeds!” Manchado stood and clicked open the alligator skin briefcase. He carefully straightened the papers on the clipboard and placed it all inside the case. With a loud snap, it shut. Mr. M marched over to Sabra and roughly gripped her arm. He lifted her from the chair and pushed her to the door. He opened the door and whispered to a dull-looking boy who was standing outside.
“Take her to the pink room.”
Sabra felt herself being shoved through the doorway via a harsh slap on her bottom. She flinched as the door slammed behind her. She stabled herself on the corridor wall. The dull-looking boy looked up at Sabra and gawked with his mouth open.
“This way, mam,” he spoke with an English accent.
The boy lead in front and Sabra followed. The lights were dim, but not dim enough. Sabra’s head throbbed. She placed her hand in her pocket and held on to the ring for comfort. They walked down a long hallway and took a left turn. At the end of the narrow passage, the boy stopped in front of a faded red door.
“EVERYONE DECENT?” He screamed as he knocked on the door.
Before allowing any response from inside, the boy turned the knob and had guided Sabra inside. Another door slammed behind her. Sabra gripped the wall.
“Who’r you!?” A voice screeched.
Within seconds, a nearly toothless face was inches away from Sabra’s. The face was plain, but pretty. The teeth were not so pretty. The woman breathed heavily awaiting a response. Sabra reminded herself not to vomit.
“Who are you?” Sabra spoke with a shake.
Then another voice interrupted from an opposite corner of the room. It belonged to a shady girl with dark hair and mean eyes.
“That’s Grace,” The voice spoke menacingly. “She’s Daddy’s favorite.”
I heard him speaking as I fidgeted with my lighter. I needed a cigarette, something to put in my mouth to keep me from screaming. My ears were pounding and his voice sounded like it came from underwater. A strangers voice, muffled by the sound of my own ears pounding.
"Don't you know I'm only human?" His chin quivered like my father's did on my graduation day. It made me queasy all the same.
I slapped him in my mind. I slapped him a thousand times. "Don't you know I am, too," I thought as I slapped him a thousand times more. I bit my lip as a phantom burn trickled through my fingers until I had to glance at them to make sure I hadn't lit myself on fire with my cheap drug store lighter.
I searched my pockets for my Marlboro's. Salvation was one drag away. I didn't look at his face as I searched the counter tops, searched through my purse, searched anywhere for that drag of salvation. I must have looked silly, shaking and searching, like that yellow cat we found at my mother's back door.
"Where are my fucking cigarettes!?" I screamed it. Or maybe I didn't. I'm not exactly sure if anything actually escaped from my lips, but my stomach was somersaulting like a rolling stone. I thought I was going to vomit, but I didn't.
I can't remember if I cried. I know my face was hot and my breath felt like fire, but I can't remember if I was crying. He was. Like any child who got caught in a lie, he was crying. I finally looked at his face, well not at it, but through it. I could see the clock on the wall. 11:52. The second hand ticked on slowly as if it was falling asleep, as if it was no longer a clock but a memory of one. My eyes locked onto it until I felt like I was sitting on that second hand, a tiny speck of dust going for a ride. I stayed there like that until it made full circle. 11:53.
I blinked.
"It was only once," the muffled voice whispered with a new kind of clarity. There was no more pounding, his voice was no longer that of an underwater stranger. The clock disappeared and I was staring at his lips. His lips, those lips that somehow seemed different now. Uglier. Those words did not suit him. They bruised him, chapped him, slapped him until he was uglier.
"It meant nothing to me." I watched him say it in slow motion.
I could feel my hand raise itself, ready to launch at his cheek, anything to reflect my pain. "This means nothing to me," I muttered with the voice of an underwater stranger, shivering like a yellow cat in the rain.
My hand struck him like a rock. It shook, as if it weren't my own.
