Whistle

The sound of breathing. A steady beeping. The smell of hand sanitizer and bland, formless food. The lights made him wince as his eyes trembled open. Fragments of memory began to piece together in his mind. 

He remembered metal. A hollow, metal pipe, and air whistling through. He remembered the deafening crack above his left ear, and the split moment in which he had understood the indignation of defeat.  

This wasn’t his first time. There had been others. Like that stringy teenager with the baby-smooth face. That kid had taken a swing to his head and made him splatter his new suit with his own blood. He had been angry even as he had lost consciousness. 

There had been another face before that too … or perhaps it had been after. A face just as smooth but missing all the fire. That face had had wide eyes and an open mouth that had plead for mercy. He had beaten it until it had splintered. No control.

He sighed. Had he been young once too? As young as that kid he had broken? And the kid before that, and the kid before that? Yes … yes, he had been young once. Before he had sliced off the fingers of his enemies and slipped on their bloody rings; before he had recruited underlings and stoked the savage fire crackling in their eyes; before he had earned sweeping scars across his chest and stomach; before he had found the whores and the drugs; before he had become a man. He had been young once.

He had been a boy sitting in front of the television on a hot summer night as his mother had washed the dishes. He had heard a knock on the door and the faucet squeaking. He craned his head away from the TV as his mother walked to the door. She stared into the peephole before jerking her head back and staring again. She opened the door. There was a man. 

He was staring off to the side of the house, whistling, the foul stench of cheap vodka leaking from his mouth and filling their small home. The man turned his head and stared at his mother with bloodshot eyes like a drunken parrot. 

“Hey, babe.”

A moment of shock, then his mother screaming and pushing against the door, her fingers white from her grip. Struggling then a kick. His mother toppling over. 

He scurried back, his yell of horror trapped inside his gaping mouth, as the man staggered into the room. His mother stood up, screaming, crying, pointing. The man laughed and said his mother had gotten fat. As fat as a big, ugly cow. She yelled and pushed him. He punched her.

He felt something cracking inside his mind. He eyed his mother facedown on the floor and brought his hands up to his head, biting back the pain leaking from his eyes. He grabbed glass, swung, and watched his father crumple to the floor. For the first time, he had stared into the eyelids of a broken man. Victorious.

He closed his eyes. His fingers twitched against the hospital linens. He listened to the steady beeping of his pulse and felt old. He wanted his blood to pour out and take away his memories along with it. He wanted to forget.

Perhaps, next time, someone would finally hit him hard enough.