He walked past George without a good-bye, like every fight day.
“Good luck, kid” George called after him, also like every fight day.
Marcus walked, well rather stalked, his way to the arena and headed back to the locker room to get taped up. This was not a long process. Small, open-finger gloves, no shoes, basic boxers and a protective jock did not take long to put on. Mental prep meant everything.
Bill taped his knuckles silently, knowing Marcus’s prep time was all internal. He didn’t need speeches or yelling to motivate him. He found everything he needed from inside. There was enough hatred in his memories to fuel any fight he could enter.
Marcus focused on every backhand his father had delivered to him, every punch on his back as he threw his body over his sister, every drunken insult he’d ever heard. He just had to let his mind take one step backward in time, and he would be ready to pummel anyone.
Marcus loved Mixed Martial Arts fighting — nothing in the cage but him, his enemy, and a ref that no one paid much attention to. No shoes, no fancy footwork, no helmets, hardly any rules. Man-against-man was raw that way: pure and great release. Every punch he delivered was retribution for past wrongs, every kick he landed was proof he was not a victim. Even the punches he received did nothing but exorcise his demons and prove he was strong enough to take them — on his own terms.
As he fell into that place in his head, Bill said to him, “You’re on Skevly tonight. He’s one of the three I told you about. He’s taller than you, but top heavy. No legs on that guy worth anything. Knock him off balance and he’s yours. I’ve watched him fight before. He’s a bit of a wrestler, so don’t get wrapped up. If you need to hold on, get at him from behind. Stick to the kicks and punches and he’s all yours. You can take this guy. Your third up. Watchin’ the first two?”
Marcus just shook his head and let the animal simmer right under the surface, ready to come out the minute he was in the cage. Bill left him to his brooding and walked out to the main room to coach his first fighter through the match. The night would see good fighting all the way around, but Bill was always most anxious to watch Marcus.
He knew that Marcus was a beast, but he also knew there was more. Marcus had all the rage to work with, but at the sacrifice of precision. If Bill could somehow focus his best fighter’s rage into keenly skilled attacks? Marcus would be genuinely unstoppable. All in good time, Bill figured. But for now, he would get to watch the show when Marcus came in to dominate the ring, and win or lose, a match including Marcus Walker was a good show.
Erin reread her response to M for about the twentieth time before she finally made herself stop. She couldn’t really change the words anyway — they were ink on paper. She couldn’t get her mind off of the journal, though, and she nearly laughed out loud when she remembered something her therapist had told her five years ago:
She never found anyone she trusted. Not ever. How could she possibly trust someone after having trust so violently broken? Even the thought of trust didn’t seem possible. Now, this journal-stealing jackass got her story.
She shared without meaning to. She trusted a book, which was hard enough, but now she shared her story, well, a hint of it, but still. Someone got through her very strong, well-crafted walls, damn it. And instead of being completely angry, she found herself relieved. Someone saw her damage and a glimmer of hope in her.
M’s note professing her strength was the first thing in five years that hinted at healing. That therapist had been right all along, and Erin laughed at herself because she had gotten a pass, of sorts. She got the bit of healing without daring to open herself up to anyone. Circumstance opened her up.
Regardless, she was smiling and sitting tall. She could overlook his reading the journal. If she had found a journal like that, she may have been tempted, too. M was only human, and if he responded to her note back to him, then she will have heard him share, too. That would even the score a bit. Maybe then she would find the strength to let more healing in, and maybe help him in the process.
What a convoluted way of thinking. She dropped the whole notebook business from her mind and settled into her accounting work. Calculations were clean, concise, predictable, and didn’t threaten to give her a headache like the internal notebook dialogue had. She sat down with her laptop. All she needed was a spreadsheet and some Chex Mix and Erin was set for a stable, safe afternoon of accounting.
She had her hair pulled up in a messy bun, strings of red curls falling out at random spots, and of course, her favorite cotton combo of yoga pants and cami. But because she was feeling so much better in general, she decided to put on a playful pair of stripy socks her parents sent her for her birthday.
She spent the rest of Saturday working on payroll calculations and reviewing a complicated and ugly consolidated tax return. That part was a pain, but predictable like she wanted. She was comfortable and in her work zone, but she was not empty. She found herself smiling a few times when she glanced over and looked at the “strength” token she had placed beside her pencil cup.
She smiled at the little gift given to her. She couldn’t help but wonder again at who might be its donor, the one who found and read her journal. That person obviously knew who she was. She rolled her eyes at how unfair it was that she didn’t have the foggiest clue who he was. All she had to go on was the letter “M” and scratchy penmanship, certainly not enough for an identification.
She thought maybe he would be willing to reveal himself now that she’d written him back, but if not, how would she find out who he was? The mystery was a bit fun, she admitted to herself, but still scary at the same time. Regardless, this written conversation should be interesting. She found herself looking forward to his next communication.
After all the crazy brain-play and focused accounting, Erin was ready for a work out. She went down to the rec center of her apartment complex and headed for the treadmill. She ran a few miles before doing a seriously intense arms and upper back work out.
Moving around felt great after being stationary at her desk for so many hours and gave her mind some time to consider her new pen-pal even more. Life was finally interesting again…and scary. Erin knew, however, there was no going back.
She slept well that night and awoke refreshed the next day. Erin spent Sunday much the same way as Saturday. She ran errands, did work, exercised and cleaned her apartment. This was about the same as every Sunday. This week, however, she was not a zombie during the process. She had life bubbling from within. Song lyrics sang from her mouth while she dusted, and joy danced in her feet — she put some of her favorite music on while she cleaned. Simple things like that were becoming more natural, even after only less than a week of writing.
She knew writing was only part of the difference. Another part was the mystery of her writing companion. Even more, though, was from herself. She made the decision to let happiness in. Once she allowed that little crack in her wall, happiness was pushing through as fast as it could. She didn’t realize how strongly she was blocking out the good feelings in the world along with all the rest.
Chapter Three
Sunday found Marcus bruised and sore from his fight against Skevly. He won the match by submission in the second round. As always, the ref had to pull him away from his opponent after the match was called.
Manners, like stop-before-you-kill etiquette, never mattered much to Marcus when he was in the cage. All he knew was this: enemy, hit/kick, take down, defeat. He didn’t see a lot of need to know any more than that. The morning after a fight, however, there were three completely different things he knew: ice packs, breakfast, and call sister.
Scrambled eggs, fried potatoes, orange juice, and three ice packs later, Marcus cleaned up his breakfast and stretched his sore joints and muscles. He poured himself a glass of tap water and was ready to call Cassie.
He called her every Sunday morning to see how she was doing. Cassie was his twin, just finishing a 2-year-degree in community college after 5 years of taking classes. Between getting away from their father and waitressing full-time to cover bills while she studied, she was set to graduate at the end of the summer session in August.
She would be a licensed medical assistant and already had a job lined up with a local pediatric clinic she did her internship with. Marcus was so proud of her and supported her the entire way. The money he saved by living as simply as he did always went straight to Cassie’s education fund. He would do anything for her. She was the one ray of sunshine in the darkness of his childhood.
“Hey, Cass,” Marcus said when she picked up her cell.
“Hey Marc! How was your fight? You still have a face?”
“Yes, thank you, but I broke two toes on the guy’s head.”
“Yikes. Don’t tell me about it. I don’t really want to know.”
“Then you don’t want to hear about the knee-shaped bruise in my ribcage?”
“Stop it! I don’t even know how you stand doing that.”
“What can I say. All the sewing jobs were taken.”
“Smart ass.”
“Yep. So what’s new?” Marcus asked Cassie.
She responded, “Started my last class this past week. LAST CLASS! I can’t believe it. The class seems ok, I’ve had the prof before and he’s decent. Shouldn’t be too big of a deal, and then I’m going to pass my exams and have a real job, Marc. A REAL job. I can finally stop schlepping drinks.”
“That’s great, Cass. Seriously great.”
“I know. Thanks for your help. I’m going to pay you back every cent,” she said
“It wasn’t a loan, that was me helping. Just focus on getting yourself started,” he replied warmly.
“And there’s the story of why you rock, Marc. So what about you? Anything new?”
Marcus hesitated, and decided not to tell her about Erin Connor and the notebook. Cassie would probably yell at him for reading it and miss the whole point of making a connection with someone. So after a few seconds, he finally responded, “Nah, same old thing here.”
“Whatever. I know you, Marcus. What’s on your mind? Are you ok?”
“Geez, Cassie, you’re a pain. No, I just sort of met someone, well, not really met them, but got to know them.”
“Huh? How does
that
work? Is this someone a female by any chance?”
God, sisters are a nuisance
, he thought lovingly.
“Yes, but that’s got nothing to do with anything. I found this book of hers when I was cleaning in her office and I read a few pages. It was cool, her story. Something bad happened to her, too, and she’s coming out of it. It was just good to read, I suppose.”
“This book while cleaning? Her story? YOU READ HER DIARY???”
“See that’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t know it was her journal or whatever until I was already reading it. Then, I just wanted to see how it all played out. If it makes you feel any better, I left her a note apologizing to her and telling her she was strong.”
“Oh. My. God. You’re an idiot. Seriously an idiot. I hope you don’t get fired over this,” Cassie said, genuinely worried for her brother.
“Don’t worry,” Marcus teased. “Your gravy train isn’t going to stop. Besides, I was kind of intrigued so I asked her to let me read more.”
“Wow. You’ve got balls, Marc. I’ll give you that. But, seriously, you’re an idiot. Or you’ve been kicked in the head too many times now. Maybe you
should
take up sewing.”
“Don’t you have to go study?” he tossed back at her.
“Actually, I do. So, uh, don’t be any more of an idiot this week and I’ll talk to you next Sunday. Thanks for calling, Marc. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Cass.”
Marcus sat back on his couch and stared at the wall. Maybe he was an idiot for writing that note. Erin Connor never would have known he read her journal and life could have just gone right on along. What’s done was done, though, so no point in questioning it.
Besides, he needed to write that note. She needed to hear what he wrote. Knowing she has strength inside her when someone else tried to strip it away could is crucial. Finding that within herself could very well be most powerful experience she’ll have. Bill taught Marcus; Marcus wanted to teach Erin.
He thought back to her picture on the wall of the accounting firm. She was standing tall with her shoulders back and her chin level. She had sharp, intelligent green eyes and what was probably very pretty hair. He couldn’t tell when it was all pulled back like that, but at the very least her hair was a really sexy shade of red.
Erin Connor was obviously fit, or at least took care of herself enough to look very good in professional clothes. Marcus had never really found women in power-suits very attractive, but even business-wear couldn’t hide that Erin Connor was very pretty. He imagined that in a pair of jeans, tight t-shirt, and with her hair down, Erin Connor would be down right hot.
He found himself sitting black-eyed on his couch, wanting to find out. He thought more about her than he should have. He kept picturing all those scenes from her childhood she had written about. He so easily imagined the neighbor’s puppy licking her nose and the innocent, little-girl giggles that probably followed. The mental image was sweet.
He didn’t have a lot of “sweet” growing up, and he and Cassie never had a lot of friends. They kept mostly to themselves out of a shared sense of survival. Marcus was now feeling a bit like Erin was a childhood friend. They grew up at about the same time, he assumed, and sharing in her memories made him feel a bit connected with her even back in his childhood. That way of thinking wasn’t rational, but he found the connection comforting. He wanted to hear more.