meet me at the love parade

“lights out, baby!” the man beside you chirps at the fallen fighter, as if he could hear. the lady next to him, on the other hand, almost spits her words; her voice is frantic and far too enraged. it’s not the end, not now, is what you think– until the referee grabs both of them by the arms. the crowd is already cheering before the ref even raises the guy's hand on his left.

“vanja! vanja! vanja!”

the dude — vanja looks tired despite all the chantings claiming how great he is. the tattoo on his lifted arm is fully on display now. thanks to the bold letters, you can read it by slightly tilting your head:

caveat emptor — buyer beware.

the irony of translation is laughable, given he got it when he was barely 17 –inspired by that one sci-fi book– and it has turned into a self-fulling prophecy because he is, indeed, a product to entertain this whole audience by getting roughed up now. people bet on him, like he’s some sort of animal: as an animal that is supposed to get out of the ring only if it gets to win.

he’s a siberian husky with white fangs at times, and an aseel gamefowl when the opportunity arrives. he’s frankel with his newly dyed black hair– unbeaten and the one and only worth remembering; he’s le cheval gagnant.

and at what costs?

he wipes the blood on his face with the back of his hand. eyes start roaming around, and then you know it’s your turn to give it up for him.

“vanja,” you shout before whistling with your fingers, “you’re a beauty!”

your eyes lock with his— they always do. in this small, run-down warehouse, you always end up getting recognized. but he doesn’t hear you, and quite frankly, you highly doubt he’d give in even if he did.

but you are there. of course you are there.

vanja finally climbs out of the ring. the person beside you keeps cursing vanja under their breath and gets up to leave the warehouse. you scoff at them while your fingers graze the crumpled betting slip deep in your pocket. “you really bet on the underdog?”

“fuck off!”

***

the room often reminds him of a rathole. it’s disgusting; it’s dirty and it stinks, but he can work with that, he thinks, as long as the pay is good. it’s not like he’s gonna do this for the rest of his life. some quick cash and the occasional bruises— he can work with it, that is what he believes most of the time... the sole exception being the times when a severe headache hits right after the match. times like these, to be precise.

“you okay there?” a guy asks him. the guy does not look concerned; he doesn’t even look him in the eye. but he’s kind enough to throw a bottle of painkillers toward the injured man.

“thanks,” he mumbles. two 500 mg tablets per match: one before and one after. he can still work with it, he thinks, despite what people had to say about substance dependence.

despite you, with your reproachful stare, right in front of the door.

“you’re going to die.”

“for sure,” he says, his contemptuous voice stealing a soft chuckle from you.

“you want some help?” you ask as you point at his fingers. he doesn’t get it at first, truth is, he never really does.

“I'm good,” the answer hardly seems to change either way. he is good. with or without painkillers and bandages, he’s doing great. he’s the best with or without your help.

but it’s like you can read his mind. or, maybe it’s your little way of retaliating.

“you know what, vanja,” you grab the bottle before continuing, “if you really had been the best—”

“save it,” he interrupts, but never does anything stop you when it comes to your sharp mouth.

“—you wouldn’t have been here.”

he doesn’t answer. he should be better than that. but it only adds fuel to the fire,

“you wouldn’t have been in this shithole. you wouldn’t have been an idiot for those bastards’ entertainment.”

“where would I have been?”

he doesn’t clench his fists, and he certainly doesn’t seem to grit his teeth. because he should know better than that.

he knows better, so he answers his own question. “on TV?” he smiles softly, “ufc, maybe? if I'm lucky enough, right? who would I have entertained instead?” the old, sage green sofa doesn’t look very comfortable, but with the way he drops his weight onto it, you’d doubt he’d ever complain. he shifts around the sofa to find most comfortable position for himself before turning his head to face you.

“I’m willing to— I’m willing to bet they’d be so much better than those people,” he mumbles before turning his back on you.

it’s you who clench your fists and grit your teeth.

“you’re ruining your life here.”

it’s been two years already, two years since you’ve been following him around and chanting his name, just to find him after the match and cuss him out.

“good morning.” words come out way more raw in his mother tongue, his voice way harsher. and yet he doesn’t move.

it’s been one and a half years since you have started to bet on him. five years since you’ve first met. three years since he has made up his mind about certain things such as his horrible career path— it must have started right around those times. that is, if your memory serves you correctly.

and yet he still doesn’t move. you slowly put the bottle on the brown, antique table (where they possibly found it and why it’s there remain a true mystery to this day). “alright,” you say, right before slowly closing the door behind you. vanja lets out a sigh then, and the air gets heavier whenever you leave the room with scarcely anything to say. the air gets heavier as the room gets marked by a gruesome non-celebration. the lack of celebration hurts his chest more than a bottle of painkillers.

the lack of celebration hurts his pride more than the blood on his shirt.

he can get used to anything. adjusting to new surroundings and circumstances has always been easy for him, or so he likes to think. and fairly enough, he has gotten used to your annoying attitude and tantrums as well as your daily dosage of lecturing him.

but does anyone care to tell him the reason why he never gets used to those uncelebrated evenings— uncelebrated evenings in which you decide to storm out?

good thing painkillers get him a little sleepy.

***

next thing he knows is — you are not there.

you should’ve been there. of course you should’ve been there with him, even though he rarely looks your way when you are.

but he’s a hound who carries his leash in his mouth. and he hardly understands what you want from him.

you’re only ever there when he’s sick and stubborn. he’s only seen when he’s dumb and destructive. he’s a hound with his leash in his mouth, yet you never seem to take it, to lead the way for him. you only ever tell what he’s supposed to do. a hound, he knows, with its chain in the mouth only ever meets sinister people.

but he’s aware you’d rather not have it another way. you can bandage him, show him a bit of love and affection here and there, you can talk about how his future could be much more beautiful than he has ever dreamed of, you can support him until he feels a little bit more comfortable with you.

but again he knows, regardless of how much he gets used to your presence, you would never take the chain. no – even worse,

you’d never let him be part of your life.

he’s good at adjusting to the handicaps of challenging situations. although years of boxing has probably left him with permanent brain damage and bruises, it dawns on him at times – the way you perceive this relationship is totally different. it hits him on these uncelebrated evenings that all you ever want to do is sit through the match and tell him you’re worried. all you ever want, he realizes, is the satisfaction of being there— being better, as the virtuous little rescuer of him.

so he avoids giving you the fulfillment of treating his wounds.

but how are you supposed to even care if you don’t bother to show up? if you don’t see him bruised and blue? not that he’s seeking sympathy, and it’s definitely not that you’d do any favors here, but —

but years of boxing hasn’t gotten him totally dumb yet. he knows there are some boundaries to this game. he knows your wrath would get to your head at some point, especially if he’s not very careful.

and all he ever feels is pain. and it hurts like hell.

the shouts are — their shouts are bearing down on him. the next thing he knows is two men pulling him out of the ring. the audience gets surprisingly quiet all of a sudden, or maybe he just can’t hear them any longer. either way, you’re not there, and it probably wouldn’t matter even if you were.

still, he can’t help but seek your sympathetic face in that crowded warehouse.

the audience is not totally shocked. after all, vanja is truly a wonderful entertainer for the ones who like a little bit of spice in their gambling. he doesn’t have a winning streak, though he’s very well-known around here. and for the loyal enthusiasts of the game, the patterns are clear as day. it’s very obvious -as they often pass the words to the others- that there are some times vanja loses the game like he’s sworn to.

some even say he gets paid to lose, when they consider the aimless punches and his caricaturistically horrendous performance.

despite his high-and-mighty attitude, vanja is no better than a hound. he’s not as clever as he makes it out to be, and he certainly doesn’t get himself wasted because he gets paid. he also doesn’t do any of that to show up in your apartment and seek attention. he does it all instinctively, like he doesn’t have anywhere to go, anyone to show his scars except for you.

but you take him in either way. you help him get through the pain, though how he claims he hasn’t lost. on your side, it doesn’t matter whether or not he wins. a hound that weeps is still a hound with its leash. his pain, regardless of the outcome of it, doesn’t make him more of a human. it doesn’t add selfhood to him. he’s tragically aware of it.

but there is a towel, stained with black hair-dye in your apartment. there is an extra toothbrush in your bathroom. a book, ubik, is right on top of the drawer.

he gets to have a presence in your place. there are remarkable things about him in the room you sleep.

“vanja,”

and it’s all he ever wants to have. to be acknowledged, if not accepted, by you.

“yeah?”

“will you ever stop?”

he will not. not when that’s the only way he gets to be in your life, as the helpless distressed “damsel” that needs to be helped.

still, he lightly nods, “yeah.”

you grimace at how easily he lies. but, even if he doesn’t stop, you’ll still be there. and maybe it’s not entirely because you want to play the part of a holy soul, but because he’s truly someone you find worth helping.

the tragedy is you’ll never know how obsessively devoted he is to become part of your life as an individual, not a hound. and he’ll never realize he must be truly dear enough for you, dear enough to be there for him. the tragedy is his self destructiveness will never make him feel more of a person in the eyes of yours.

“hi,” they come up right after you head to the bathroom. he’s uneasy now that he’s there with some rando, and you are not with him.

“well, um, sorry for bothering you, but I was kinda wondering if your friend— um, is she single?”

his mouth goes dry. it’s almost like it’s a personal attack to his very being– he looks like they just insulted him. the contemptuous look makes them shift. they clear their throat once more. “well, I know–”

“of course she isn’t,” he spits before he could ever stop himself. he tries to backpedal, to soften it somehow,  “she has the most loving…” he thinks for a second, “---boyfriend. ever.” 

but it sounds like he’s showing off instead. either way, why would he ever want to soften it at all?

the person apologizes uneasily. 

“yeah, it’s okay. and she loves him so much, too. they’re… they’re just really meant to be, you know. it’s crazy, isn’t it? to be able to find someone you click so well with.”

they look at him dumbfounded. “yeah… right.”

“anyway, never mind that. how old are you? 24… 25?” 

he’s genuinely not supposed to feel bitter about someone who doesn’t even have the courage to come up and ask it to you instead of him, but he is pissed regardless. 

he’s on the edge, to be fair. but you’re talking about stuff that does not matter in the slightest. 

“why?” he does not sound accusing at all. he says it with a wretched tone, he reminds you of  a kicked puppy. yet you’re not able to fathom what he could possibly mean by that.

“what do you mean why?” 

he slightly shakes his head. he’s not going to bring the bastard up to your lovely conversation, no. you are never ever going to acknowledge their existence. their pathetic excuse for an existence, if he has to be fairly honest. 

“c’mon,” you speak again, but it’s all in vain. it’s your possibly least favorite thing about her. she’s always so open, so honest yet… yet when it’s about herself, she shrinks away.

he thinks it’s all because he knows how easy it is on your end to pacify him. you would whisper sweet nothings to his ear, and then you would give a peck on the mouth, tell him it doesn’t matter. then ask him if he’s feeling better yet.

he doesn’t want to feel better yet. he has the right to be upset right now, no? 

“baby,” you get closer to him, your hand brushing his shoulder. right near his ear, you murmur very gently “is everything alright?”

once again he answers with a wounded look. 

“do you love me?”

it’s hard to say no. especially when he smells like jasmine and you’re a bit too close to his lips.

“it’s very cool,” she beams while her eyes wander around the room, “wait, you’ve got an electric guitar? how come you’ve never told me?” 

“I think I have, like, multiple times,” they say with an awkward smile.

“that’s amazing. I’ve had one as well… though it’s been a long time.” he mentions as he gently touches the guitar. “I’ve missed playing it.”

“would you like to?” they’re too close. he’s going to throw up. they’re too close. and it’s all because he’s too kind. because he’s not as aggressive as you. because he’s too vulnerable. too naive. they’re too close.

“thought you’d never ask,” he laughs. the guitar is a soft blue. it’s decorated with a few doodles and a signature. “have a song in mind?” they ask.

“of course! there’s one that’s my favorite to play. I forgot its name, though.” he looks up at them and stands up shortly after,  “but there’s a problem,” he gets closer and closer, with that one mesmerizing smile of his. “sure,” they gulp with excitement, like a pirate who has fallen prey to the song of a siren before she even starts to sing.

“the problem is, it starts with the loudest kick, and that’s an essential part of the whole song.” the color of the guitar matches his long, baby blue nails. your initial is on the ring finger, with a sweet little heart shape right next to it.

“well, I—” they begin, but he’s already made his mind.

“it’s alright, I have my ways.” the whisper sends a shiver down their spine, but maybe, just maybe, it’s a bit too late for survival instincts.

before they even get to speak, he shifts his grip to the neck of the guitar and lifts it. their eyes are widened, and without the chance to scream, the guitar strikes them with a loud thud. with the loudest kick, to be more precise.

what a shame the guitar’s not in the best condition to play anymore.