10
ROLAND
"Fucken hell," I muttered as Harriet left.
I'd spent all day preoccupied with the gryphon carving. I got home as fast as I could, locked myself in my room without so much as a "hello" to my roommate Carter, and placed it carefully on the bed.
I stared at it like I was fucken Gollum from Lord of the Rings and it was my precious.
That analogy wasn't far off. The gryphon had a strange power over me, an aura that drew the eye and wouldn't let go. It felt good in my hands, smooth and heavy. I constantly rubbed my thumb over the teardrop ruby set on the beast's neck, admiring every facet.
Then I did some testing. I was a regular scientist that afternoon. Placing the carving on the bed, I backed away from it. Only for a few feet at first, but then farther. The living room. The front door.
And the farther I went? The more it hurt.
Hurt. Actual, physical pain. Like the pressure in the room was building, making my joints and ears ache. And every time I returned to the carving, it subsided.
Before I knew it, it was time to meet Harriet for drinks. I was excited to see her, deep down underneath the overwhelming emotions tied up with the gryphon carving. And as I got ready to go, and shoved the carving in my pocket without thinking, I wondered why I was doing it. Why I needed to take it with me.
Was it all in my head? Was I going bloody mad?
Like a drug addict who insisted he could quit whenever he wanted, I needed to know for myself. I carefully wrapped it in a blue-and-red Linfield Football Club scarf, placed it in my bedside table drawer, and backed away like a hostage leaving a bank.
I was stronger than this. I couldn't let a fucken figurine control my brain.
I got two blocks down the street before the discomfort became true pain. Sharp like a kidney punch, enough to make me hunch over while I strode down the Cambridge street. But I was a stubborn man, and I had the bit between my teeth then, so I trudged along and insisted I was man enough to ignore it.
I got halfway to McAllister's before I had to stop in an alley and vomit.
There wasn't much in my stomach since I hadn't eaten all day, but what I had I gave to the brick wall next to a dumpster. Somehow, that only made me feel worse. I waited there, hoping the agony would end, and when it didn't I continued on, half blind with pain.
I barely saw Harriet at the restaurant even though she was two feet in front of me, gorgeous and charming in a cute, awkward way. But I couldn't think about her, because the entire time it was like a thousand needles were stabbing into my skull. I was sweating. I should have just told her I was sick.
And then she'd said the last thing she should have.
I was an asshole, but she'd hit on a touchy subject. What I did for a living. And there we were, at that moment where she'd learn the truth about me and resent me for it, quicker than I'd expected this time, and in my pain I couldn't stop myself from lashing out.
And now I felt like an asshole, because that's what I was.
The waiter still stood there with his mouth open. Unable to bear the agony any longer, I pushed back my chair and rose.
"Sir, will that be all?" he asked.
"Yeah, sure," I said, grabbing a card out of my wallet and tossing it at him. The register was near the front door, and I followed him that way, but when he stopped to ring up my bill I kept going.
"Sir, your card..." he said when I opened the door.
I growled, "I'll get it later," and retreated into the cold night.
Harriet was nowhere to be seen, which was fine because I wasn't after her now. I needed to fix whatever was going on with me and this goddamn carving before I passed out. I gritted my teeth as I headed back to my apartment, and with each step the debilitating pressure in my skull faded.
When I was halfway home I pulled out my cell phone and found a name in my contact list. "Boris."
"Roland?" the manager of the underground bare-knuckle boxing circle answered. "I'm glad you called. I wanted to tell you about a girl, Harriet something. Have you talked to her?"
"God fucken damnit," I growled, "why does everyone know everything about me today?"
"Damn Roland, I was just--"
"I need a fight," I said. "Tonight."
"Really? After just getting back?"
"I need to blow off steam. What do you have for me?"
I heard the rustling of papers. "Actually, yeah. There's a big guy here who's been hanging around this week, looking for a match. But he's at least 60 pounds outside your weight..."
"Don't care, I'll take him."
The silence sounded like hesitation, so I said, "Give me the fucken fight, Boris."
"Alright, alright. Get here in the next hour and we'll set it up. But--"
I hung up.
*
The thing was in my head. My fucken head.
You know how some electronics will emit a high-pitched ringing noise, just on the edge of your hearing? It was like that, but not audible. A grain of sand inside my brain, rubbing a hole in my nerve endings. Slowly driving me insane.
And even though the larger pressure in my head continued dimming as I neared home, that goddamn grain of sand remained.
I took the steps two at a time and then strode through my apartment. The gryphon was just where I'd left it, snug and safe. Once it was in my hands everything felt calmer. More normal. At least, relatively speaking. I still felt irritable and off.
What I needed was to put my fist through some flesh.
I practically jogged out to Boris's bar in the night. It was early yet, only half full and no fights currently taking place in the corner. I jerked my head up in a greeting to Boris behind the bar--who gave me a curious look--and then headed to the back, where a tiny supply closet functioned as a makeshift locker room, with a stack of actual lockers fastened with padlocks.
I flinched when I realized that I'd forgotten to get a change of clothes. I'd gone all the way home and didn't even get what I needed! This gryphon was doing things to my psyche. Twisting me apart.
Thankfully I knew the combination to my roommate's locker, and he had a fresh pair of shorts and fighter's tape inside. I had to tie the draw strings extra tight since his waist was about six inches wider than mine, but it would do.
I paused with my bundle of clothes in my hands.
The gryphon. What was I supposed to do with it while I fought? I had no pockets. And even if I did, I could hardly fight with a bulging stone sticking out one side.
I extended my arm to place the clothes into the locker slowly. The moment my hand let go the pressure returned, like falling to the bottom of the deep end of the pool. I groaned and rotated my jaw to make it stop but it was no use.
Stuck there, I considered just going home. Taking my stuff and leaving, lying down in bed and not moving. I didn't have to deal with this. I could pretend I was sick--which I very well may have been--and slept it off.
But the desire to hit something overruled those thoughts. I needed to blow off steam. One fight was all I'd need, then I could go home. And maybe call Harriet to apologize.
Right. Harriet. I still had that to deal with. But the pain in my head left no room for guilt, so I strode back out to the bar floor.
Boris was there waiting for me. "You sure you want to do this?"
"The fuck's that supposed to mean?" I demanded. He looked like he wanted to argue more, then shrugged, then led me to the ring.
My opponent was already waiting.
His boxing shorts were the color of blood, a deep red that shined from the lights overhead. He was big, with muscles that were large and bulky rather than lean, a tank of a man rather than a sports car. A Chinese serpent tattoo covered his entire left arm. His hair was shaved down to a low fuzz, and his nose was swollen and crooked from too many breaks. The fat on his cheeks hung like slabs of lazy meat.
I ducked under the rope and made a point to stare at the guy, and almost flinched now that I was closer. His right eye was completely filled with blood, with almost no white to speak of. He returned my gaze with curiosity, looking me up and down.
"Are you my guy?" he asked in a thick Boston accent.
"Sure," I said, stretching my muscles out. "Don't let the lack of weight fool ya."
Boris made his introductions, first calling out my name to a chorus of halfhearted cheers. Normally I'd strut around the ring and be as boisterous and entertaining as possible, but tonight I didn't have it in me. Being in the ring helped a little bit, some comforting familiarity, but the gryphon still pained me even here, just 20 feet away. I shook my head to try to dispel the sensation.
I didn't catch most of Boris's introduction of my opponent, except that his name was The Dragon.
"This ain't no Mexican luchador circuit," I sneered, annoyed and angry and still writhing in discomfort. "We don't use nicknames."
"Not a nickname," he said, still examining me like I was a steak that wasn't cooked to his specifications. A fly buzzed around his head, and he swatted at it with annoyance. "Goddamn bugs."
"Fucken weirdo," I said, hopping from one foot to the other. Getting the blood flowing to my joints.
"Fighters?" Boris said, gesturing. We approached one another, each extending a fist to bump. Then we stepped back, and Boris exited the ring.
A bell rang, and the fight began.
My strategy slid into my brain. Against an opponent so far outside my weight class, I would need to rely on my speed. Keeping him at distance, dancing around him and away from his larger attacks, darting in and out where I could to do some damage. Wear him down.
Dragon boy stepped forward steadily, carefully, and I orbited him to gauge his balance and grace. He moved like any other lumbering idiot, only enough to put himself in a position where he could rely on devastating blows to win the fight. I let him get close enough to try a jab, then moved back away from it easily.
Okay, now I knew what I was up against. I could handle this dude easily.
"Are you my guy?" he repeated again.
"We're fucken fighting, aren't we?"
"You mistake my meaning, friend." He slid forward with a little more speed, jabbing twice with his left before throwing a wide punch with his right. The latter caught me off guard, but I was able to avoid it and take only a glancing blow across the shoulder.
I quickly twisted and countered with a jab at his head, which he blocked with a swipe of his fist. He grinned at me, showing teeth that were yellow and foul.
"I've been looking for my man all over Boston," he drawled in that Southie accent, fists raised and head hunched. "Days of it. I can almost smell him, if only I could take a big enough whiff." He sniffed the air. "So. Are you him? Are you my guy?"
"I'm not your fucken nobody." I added an exclamation point to my statement by bulling forward, hoping to catch him off guard with a feint to his head before battering his ribs with body blows. But the man didn't fall for the feint, and he reacted smoothly by lowering his forearms to block my body blows, left and right and left again, none of them connecting with his ribs. I wanted to keep at him, the frustration and anger of the day urging me on, but the fighter inside me screamed louder and I jumped backwards before the larger man could counterattack.
For a moment he looked surprised, but then something else fell across his meaty face.
Disappointment.
"No," he said sadly. "You're not him."
And then he was moving toward me steadily, and he anticipated my slide to the right and cut me off, sending a quick jab at my face that struck my cheek and made me see stars. Flashes of white light danced across my vision as I tried to recover, moving backwards blindly, but onward the man came. The dragon tattoo on his arm rippled as he alternated punches, forcing me backwards while my balance was lost. He moved me around the ring methodically, and the meager crowd began to cheer louder like dogs that had caught the smell of blood.
I ducked under a roundhouse punch and jogged across the ring to give me a few seconds. I was starting to feel winded. I needed to recuperate. To gather myself.
But with the pressure in my ears, and the gryphon practically pulsing in the other room like a second heartbeat, I couldn't keep my full attention on my foe.
The dragon stepped toward me with the same slow gait... and then he moved faster than I ever could have predicted, closing the distance in one long stride and delivering a vicious one-two punch to my gut. It doubled me over against my will, and then a flash of light caught me underneath the jaw, blinding me again for a moment and clicking my teeth together hard.
It was all over then, though I was still on my feet.
He moved impossibly fast then, so much so that he had to have been faking his lumbering gait prior to now. Blow after blow struck my body, ribs and gut and jaw. They came so rapid-fire it made me think the man had four arms instead of two, and my pitiful arms couldn't possibly defend from so many, but I couldn't surrender because that wasn't who I was, so I took each punch and tried to defend my face and listened to the sound of the crowd screaming for the kill.
There was a brief moment where the punches stopped, and through swollen eyes I saw the man pulling back.
The killing blow was a sledgehammer of a punch to the left side of my face, delivered with his entire twisting body. For a heartbeat I was weightless, and then the ground rushed up and struck me in the side of the face, and everything was horizontal: the ground, the dragon's bare calf muscles covered in reddish hair, and the clothed feet and legs of the crowd all around. I tried to put a hand underneath me to get up, because I didn't have the stomach for surrender, was too angry and pained to lose tonight, but somehow my hand couldn't find the floor.
Boris was in the ring then, and I heard his distant voice announcing something, but couldn't understand the words.
"Nope. Not him," I heard the dragon say, disgust and disappointment in his voice.
The last thing I heard was the fighter's chuckles as he left the ring, and then the crowd noise drowned him out.