Birthday Nightmare

“If you’re finished daydreaming over your needlework, get in the ring. Shilla’s waiting for you!” It was the tone more than the words that snapped me out of my frantic crocheting. Not a good look for an MMA gym. Still, I only had two weeks left to finish my brother’s birthday blanket. I’d come up with a very intricate pattern since it was his tenth birthday behind bars in the Philadelphia Industrial Correctional Center. The least I could do since I’d abandoned him to his fate was provide him with a pretty blanket.

“I said MOVE,” Doctor Death’s forceful voice once again broke through my musings. I didn’t realize that the course I’d enrolled in to keep my gym membership this year included ring time. Each week, one of us had to step into the ring with one of Redemption Gym’s veteran fighters. We basically got our asses handed to us as the veteran - Shayla aka Shilla the Killa for the girls and Doctor Drake aka Doctor Death for the boys - explained our ineptitude to the class. It was embarrassing, and if I could have skipped this part of the class, I would have. Putting my crochet supplies away and mentally preparing to kiss the mat, I moved toward Shilla.

The smirks on the faces of my classmates were understandable. Even after ten years of training hard in this gym, I was still nicknamed ‘Mouse’ behind my back and to my face. I was quiet and unobtrusive. I did what was asked of me and did my best not to stand out. I practiced religiously, rain or shine. I had no friends to talk to or dish about me. And I’d never once stepped into the ring. This was going to be a disaster.

“Come on, Mouse. I got more ass to kick after handing you yours,” Skilla taunted me. I ignored the jab, like I’d ignored many similar taunts all my life. What was the point of getting riled up? The outcome of this ‘fight’ was a foregone conclusion. No one lasted three minutes against either of the veteran fighters. They were both highly ranked in the California State amateur fighting circuit. This was more for educational purposes - giving pointers to improve our fighting prowess.

“Five bucks says she’s down in fifteen seconds,” someone snickered as I passed. Oh yeah, and it was about humiliation. Because you never really escape high school.

As per usual, I kept my mouth shut and dutifully stepped into the ring, ignoring the shiver of dread that coursed through my body as I passed the ropes. My smooth, medium brown skin broke out in gooseflesh as I made my way to the center of the ring. I’d tried everything to get out of this course, up to and including trying to quit the gym entirely. I hadn’t signed up for this. But the gym’s owner, a giant of an alpha male named Torment, was having none of it. He was also intimidating with a capital I, both in and out of the ring. And who the hell was going to challenge a man who’d earned the fighter name Torment?

“This is Mouse’s first mistake,” Shilla said dismissively as I approached her. “No swagger. No hype. Mouse brings no energy to the ring. When you’re approaching this space, you get out what you put in.” The woman adjusted her sports bra and short fighter shorts absently as she continued to instruct the class on my failings, but I tuned her out, noting that my own sports bra and male shorts were in order and covered by a sleeveless tank top as I waited for our bout to begin. Did she really think I heard it all before? That I didn’t dissect my failings on a daily basis? How could I ever forget what a delicate waste of skin I was when I was the reason that my brother was in jail in the first place?

Putting aside that dark thought and those that usually followed, I tapped her balled up fists and backed away slightly to prepare for the inevitable. The rules were the same every week. No face shots, no groin shots, no fish-hooking (putting fingers in someone’s mouth and pulling them around like a fish), and no one leaves until someone falls unconscious or taps out.

Shilla continued her studied deconstruction of my ‘technique’ as she threw a jab at my arm. I dodged and countered as quick as lightning with a jab of my own. The woman turned to me, her face screwed up in anger as the hit had connected, as did the other two to her opposite arm. Woah! Where had that come from? I’d never fought in my life, but I’d watched others closely. Apparently, some of the teaching and observations had sunk in over the years, because I was moving like a seasoned fighter, up on my toes and dodging Shilla’s fists. Not only that, I had her on the defense! It was like someone else had possessed my body and was fighting in my stead. She growled and swept my legs out from under me after I punched her in the gut. She tried to put me in a submission hold once I was on the mat, but I sprang up like a jack-in-the-box, aiming a kick at her side that connected.

By now, our fight was attracting a lot of attention. My classmates were cheering me on as I beat Shilla’s ass. She couldn't pin me down; I was quick like my namesake. Not only that, I was precise, my medical training allowing me to strike at her most vulnerable points while protecting myself from her increasingly haphazard strikes. Shilla looked furious, like she expected an easy target and got a real challenge instead. She seemed determined to get me in a submission hold, her method of choice for winning fights in our class.

But my body simply refused to be where it was supposed to be. I was as perplexed by this turn of events as she was. I’d been training for a decade on the off chance that someone tried to take advantage of me, but this was honestly the first time I’d tried to put the moves I’d practiced in the Grunt and Grapple class to the test. Years of endurance training - not to mention the bi-annual Baby Boot Camp sessions one of the other veterans, Fuzzy, insisted that I take - meant that I wasn’t even winded! Yet. I needed to stay focused if I wanted to finish this fight with my dignity intact.

She took me to the mat for the fifth time in as many minutes. This time, I let her, wrapping my legs around her neck in a painful submission of my own. The pressure on her carotid artery forced her to tap out before she suffered the indignity of passing out in front of her class. Once she tapped the mat three times, I released her, only to be hauled to my feet by Doctor Death. He was shouting something I couldn’t hear over the pounding of blood in my ears and the equally loud cacophony of sound as the whole gym celebrated my victory. The highly attractive doctor raised my arm in the air in triumph, but I let that arm go limp, darting for freedom outside the ring. I needed air, and I still had a birthday blanket to finish if I wanted to mail it to the East Coast in time for Gordon’s 28th birthday.

People who had sneered whenever they saw me now tried to stop me for advice and congratulations, but I ignored them all. I was on call at the hospital tonight, and it never failed that I ended up with an urgent page about a patient whenever I dared come to the gym. I checked my pages.

Just as I thought. One of my patients had high blood pressure, and another was withdrawing from alcohol and being loud and disruptive on the unit. Had it really only been seven minutes since my bout with Shilla?

“Oh my God, I can’t believe you beat the Killa,” Norman, one of the guys in my class, gasped, his fair skin blotchy and puffing from where he’d raced across the gym and up the bleachers to catch me. Like Doctor Death, Norman had long, blond hair that curled at his nape with his sweat. But unlike our co-instructor, Norman’s stocky body lacked definition. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attractive in that beta sort of way, but Doctor Death was a blond Adonis compared to the man before me.

Not that I was interested. The good doctor was known for his steamy one-night stands and for chasing women who were taken by other alphas. Apparently, the man had a death wish, but that wasn’t my concern. My concern was finishing the blanket for my incarcerated brother.

“We should go out and celebrate. A bunch of us are headed to-”

“I can’t. I’m on call tonight. My ride is coming in a few minutes to take me back to the hospital, so I really need to shower. Excuse me.” With that, I passed him by and made a beeline through the excited crowd to the locker room. Ten minutes later, I was in my Uber, having showered, dressed, and answered my pages. With all the efficiency of a second-year Resident, I looked over my notes on my patients so that I would be ready to get back to my 24-hour shift.

… …

“Why can’t people just let things go?” I growled in frustration while sipping on my protein shake. Since defeating Shilla, the challenges hadn’t stopped. I barely had time to crochet or train! I was already overdue for Gordon’s blanket. A finger of dread went down my spine, and I pulled out my supplies. I was almost done, but it would probably get to him 3 days after his birthday if I didn’t finish what I started.

“You are Redemption’s best-kept secret, hon,” Amanda, wife to one of the fighters and the gym’s unofficial attorney, laughed. “The Mighty Mouse! I have a hard time believing that you haven’t trained at another gym or something. How else could you have taken on Shilla the Killa?” Around the table at the alcoved snack bar in the gym, all the other girlfriends/wives of this tight-knit (read: newsy) were nodding and drinking their own shakes. Somebody kill me now! These women were going to be the death of me with their intrusive questions and meddlesome insistence on befriending me. On the one hand, it was highly flattering that they were suddenly interested after ten years of being on the outskirts. But on the other hand, I really didn’t want to share my story with strangers. It was hard enough dealing with it with my therapist.

Said therapist wanted me to embrace the attention and share with these women. Sandra felt that the experience of friendship for the first time in my life was just what I needed. I wasn’t so sure. With such an inquisitive group after my details, telling one of them meant that I would be telling all of them. Was I ready to be the pitied celebrity of Redemption? I mulled that over as I desperately worked on my brother’s blanket.

“Okay, forget the past. Is it true that you’re a doctor at the County Hospital? Doctor Death says that he’s seen you there.”

I glared at my stitches, determined to keep them straight and even despite my sudden agitation. I’d been crocheting since I was five years old. Father insisted.

Mother crocheted, and as the woman of the house, it was my duty to supply a birthday blanket to my then-seven-year-old brother.

Shuddering as I forcibly blocked out Father’s other duties for me after her death, I turned to Sia, deciding to answer her question as a distraction. “I’m a second-year Resident. I’m at the hospital as part of the orthopedic program. I’m surprised that Doctor Drake would-”

“Whoa, there, Mouse. Ring names only in the gym. You know that.” I rolled my eyes, but changed my statement accordingly.

“I’m surprised that Doctor Death knows anything about me.”

“Oh, believe me. There isn’t a regular here who doesn’t know about you and wants to know your story.”

“But why now?” I whined in frustration. “I’ve been coming to Redemption for a decade, and I’ve never had any trouble-”

“Never been any trouble, you mean,” Makayla, aka Doc, corrected me. Torment’s wife was particularly insightful, which made me nervous since she wasn’t my therapist and therefore bound by the rules of confidentiality. “You skulk around this gym like a ghost for years and years, fading into the background. Then you put Shilla on the mat, a decidedly un-ghostlike action. That’s why everyone wants to understand you better. It’s okay to talk to us, you know,” she added, placing a hand over mine as I continued working on my blanket. “You’re safe here.”

I teared up unexpectedly. I’d never been safe before. Even with Gordon watching out for me as best as he could against our alcoholic father, I’d always been afraid. I’d joined Redemption to build up my strength and ensure that no one could take advantage of me.

Again, the inky tide of my past threatened to pull me under. It was on the tip of my tongue to beg off for the evening, but a part of me wanted to stay. It was a rare Friday night when I didn’t have to work or babysit the hospital. It would be a shame to spend it in my tiny studio apartment like normal. As nosy as these people were, they were warm and welcoming. And the other regulars were having a party. I’d never been to a Redemption party.

“I… I have Daddy issues,” I finally admitted. “I’m not sure if this is the right gym for me anymore. I prefer anonymity.”

“Who doesn’t have Daddy issues, sweetie?” Sia, Predator’s woman and pregnant with their second child by him, laughed lightly. “It’s a matter of not bottling all that negativity up inside. It’ll destroy you slowly if you do. Talk to us. My actual Dad is amazing, if overprotective. Like my brother. But I was sexually assaulted, and it took Predator to help me recover.”

“My Renegade helped me face my cold parents, and how it made me seek warmth in… other places for years,” Amanda shrugged nonchalantly. This confession seemed to open the floodgates, and suddenly the others, several of whom I couldn’t pick out of a police lineup, started confessing their Daddy issues to me. A lot of these confessions involved old boyfriends or brothers; it was all fair game. After half an hour of this, I felt that I owed them for their candor.

“My… father,” I croaked. “We lost my Mom when I was five. The big C,” I shrugged, desperately hoping that I wasn’t making a grave mistake sharing my past. Doc seemed to understand, once again interrupting my needlework to squeeze my hand. “After she died, I was the woman of the house. Father started drinking. Well,” I corrected myself, “he’d always been a drunk. But it got worse after she wasn’t there to distract him from his alcoholism. And as the woman of the house, he expected me to…” I couldn't say it. I just couldn't. “Gordon challenged him almost nightly to keep me safe. I often wondered how he stood the pain of the beatings before he learned to fight. He got so good at fighting that he joined the wrestling team and got a scholarship to college.”

“He was out celebrating with his friends when Father decided, after a long, long afternoon of downing a Mickey of Jack Daniels, that it was high time that his 16-year-old daughter became a woman. I don’t know what caused Gordon to cut his graduation party short and come home, but if he’d been even a minute later…” I whimpered. Maybe sticking to the facts was best. “They fought. Gordon killed him. The judge ignored my testimony and threw the book at my brother. Ten years. And because I was a minor, Gordon trusted me to his best friend. Only… the best friend looked at me like Father did. I… I’d already ruined Gordon’s future. I couldn't defend myself. I’d never had to. I couldn’t… I challenged my high school exams two years early and applied to be an emancipated teen. After that, I left. I sent Gordon a blanket every year on his birthday, but I couldn’t face him. Not after everything I put him through. Not after all the trouble I caused.

“What do you mean, ‘ignored your testimony’?” Amanda, ever the lawyer, growled.

“If Father had raped me, Gordon’s actions would have been justified,” I told the floor, my face a four-alarm fire. “But Gordon always kept that from happening. The judge, therefore, ruled that because we don’t know what Father would have done to me, Gordon was out of line. And because he killed a man unprovoked and while he was intoxicated, he deserved to rot in jail. ‘My only regret is that I can’t keep you away from civilized society for longer than ten years,’ he said at the final sentencing. I’ve never… hated someone before. I thought about going into law to help my brother, but couldn't hack it. I failed him so completely. He’s the only family I have and I-”

Makayla hugged me tight, and I stiffened. Why had I told them all that? Yes, it was freeing, but also nerve-wracking. I bit my lip to keep from crying and looked over at the snack bar door to make sure none of the guys were lurking.

My soul actually left my body when I saw who was standing in the door. Gordon.