bleeding in black

Walsh loved cold water. To bask in it’s frigid therapy. Ice bobbed and floated about large submerged hands, tapping lightly against the fingers like thoughtful inanimate friends. Each one inquiring; “You okay?”, “Hurt much?”. Pink wisps curled from his bruised knuckles as he flexed his fists in the bowl. He watched the light hue be overtaken by crimson. Firm, hot hands melted away his numbness as they landed on his broad shoulders. He turned to see his mother looking up. Anike was a small woman.

“Bawo ni?” She lilted, tippy toeing and tilting his head to kiss cheek. Yoruba always sounded like a song when she spoke and though Walsh couldn’t himself, he’d picked phrases throughout the year. The most practiced ones, concerned food. “Ounjé.” he mused through lidded eyes. He stood at the counter icing his hands. Refusing to sit was a challenge issued to his mental endurance. Rushing to rest never made sense to him either and besides, he liked to live in the aftermath of training. Welcoming the aches and pains was the most important part of the process. It was a glimpse at what he’d be faced with in the ring. If he couldn’t take his own pain, he’d surely fall to another’s.

That notion alone was enough to drive Walsh endlessly, embedding him with diligence. Commanding your time is important for people and more for a fighter. Discipline was everything. The image of his desk popped into mind, but vanished with the wafting smell of egusi. He turned to see his mother plating perfectly kneaded fufu on a petite saucer, next to a large steaming bowl of the soup.

Some drool escaped Walsh’s mouth. He looked down in time to see a foggy red droplet plop into the ice bowl. A trickling stream followed.

“Ah - ah, Olu now!” Anike hissed in worriment. Returning the pot to the stove she opened a near drawer and grabbed a roll of gauze; Expertly tearing a moderate length of it with her teeth. Walsh was still icing his hands letting the blood drip at it’s own behest between his paw-like hands. As she neared he bent towards her without a word. Anike had already wound the gauze around two fingers and gently held her son’s chin as he opened just enough for the wad to pass between red teeth. He inhaled deep and steady as his mothers fingers applied pressure to the leaking tissue. She sucked her teeth, heaving a sigh.

“Wor’ is wrong wit dat cousin of yours, who cannot keep you from bleeding everyday, eh? Are you supposed to do dat in a spar? Kini yé?”. She huffed. Walsh chuckled agitating his wound and winced. Aniké pressed slightly firmer to stop the overrun. “Eheh, see now? I don’t know why you insist on dis your life. You’re a writer...a poet.” Her words were soft betraying the firmness with which she nursed her child. Walsh’s shoulders sagged, suddenly unable to feel the aches and pains. Just his mothers touch and her eyes like dark sand. Glistening. “You do i yami.” He mumbled.

Anike carefully removed the red wad, laying a hand on the tall young man's cheek where his inner jaw was cut. Walsh closed his eyes letting her warmth run through him, melting away the frost in his bones. He didn’t see her sad smile.

“Come, oko mi. Ounjé.”

Spicy egusi and jollof rice warmed Walsh’s belly. He sat at his desk, leaning back with eyes closed, breathing in a rhythmic pattern. The opened pores of his body embraced the air circulated by the ceiling fan. Every night Walsh took near scalding showers to relax. Hands were one thing, but Ice baths, he felt, were cruel forms of recovery.

At best he’d turn the shower to its coldest, but only in occasional circumstances. Perked up by the pleasant draft through his window he opened his eyes and leaned forward looking upon a little black book. He traced the covers engraving an idly.

“Seek your own ultimus. Find your own thule.”

Flipping it open, Walsh thumbed through the many filled pages of wonderfully calligraphic script. Each letter a winding resident of fantastical poetry and pondering as Walsh called them. They spoke of heartfelt dreams and unbound adventure. Of love. Walsh sighed reaching the final pages. Blank pages. From his desk drawer he withdrew a glass dip pen with a wooden body. It too was engraved. Preparing it with a bit of ink he rolled the utensil between his fingers carefully considering for several moments. Slowly he began to write. He didn’t stop until both pages were completed.

〃〃〃〃

“Pap! Pap! PapPap!...PAP!” Walsh struck the mitts adorning his cousin's palms with speed and precision. Each hit enticing him to pitch another. “Aight’, good work. Five minutes on ropes, three rounds a shadow boxin’.” Flipp commanded. Walsh nodded. “Aye Stella! What’s good!” Flip called across the gym.

Turning Walsh saw his friend enter the gym, striding toward them. Bright as always; Bountiful dark hair, full figure and signature cheetah print theming her outfit. The ensemble's highlight was her mask. She pulled it down to smile and salute. “Not shit!”. Flipp went to assist his nieces in practicing footwork as the young woman drew nearer. No one else understood how much Walsh cherished interactions with her.

“Heeeey!” She beamed at Walsh. Hope danced in her irises like golden hour. Walsh opened his bag grabbing his speed rope and black book. “Oh my god, it's really finished? Like for real?!” She squeaked. Walsh smiled. Stella snatched it and hugged him. “I can’t wait to read every goddamn word.” She said with her cheek pressed to his chest. Walsh chuckled at the tightness of her hug as he tried to breathe, wrapping his arms around her in response. She was a strong woman.

“Don’t get too excited. I wrote’em for me.” Walsh teased. Stella’s head snapped up. “Boy! You know you wrote’em cause you luuuhve me.” She furrowed her eyebrows with shut eyes, but her tone was a mixture of adorably false annoyance and affection. It lasted only a second before her lips parted into her grand smile. “Yeah...whatever.” Walsh half admitted letting go. Every part of him was buzzing in her wake.

Stella’s arms slipped to her sides as Walsh began roping. His motion was effortless and calm despite the intensity he put his body thru. There was always a wall around him. Unseen by many, touched by few and brought down by none. Or one rather. “Lookin’ fit.” She cooed. Walsh nodded upward in thanks. “How are the hands?” Stella questioned seriously. Walsh shrugged. “Knuckles a lil sore...but dey’ not too banged up tho.” he semi huffed through skips.

She could see the pink staining his wraps as he controlled the rope. Sometimes even she couldn’t scale his fortress. “So! Second round knockout?” She teased. Walsh grinned. “Only if I catch’em slippin’. Nobody in this competition sweet tho...dat’s for sure.” There was a grimness about his tone in the last few words he spoke. “You’ll win. It’s what you do.” She reassured. There was no smile or gesture. Only her stare. The one she gave when she meant something and wanted you to feel how much.

Sometimes she spoke and Walsh just unclenched. Like how the body relaxes after a long held stretch. She smiled. There he is. She thought. With a wave towards Flip and the girls she turned to Walsh before leaving and said, “See you ringside. Champ.” Stella exited the doors hearing the rope skip fast as ever.

〃〃〃〃

Shit!...huff, huff, huff...! Walsh's thoughts were a torrent of ill imaginings, as he sprinted through the moderately populated city block. This was the worst possible thing that could happen. Worse than never being able to write again. Worse than having to forfeit the tournament he’d been killing himself for, for months. Especially these last two weeks since Stella’s visit. He feared nothing else than this.

Slipping through the ER’s automatic doors before they were fully open, losing no speed, Walsh halted before colliding with the receptionists desk. “Anike!” He breathed with urgency. His mask was practically choking him, as he heaved for oxygen. The woman didn’t seem phased by his exasperated state. “Olu O.”. Walsh’s neck snapped in the direction of a woman’s voice. He looked to see his sister, Bianca. She waved him over through the doors she held open. The receptionist didn’t bawk.

“How she doin’?” Walsh inquired forgoing greetings. Sighing, she gave him the details. “She’s sleep right now, but...it’s not good. They sayin’ she has to have the surgery. It’s not optional anymore…”. Walsh pulled his older sibling into a hug, harboring her shaking shoulders and both their tears. This is gonna crush us. We can’t afford this. My only hope... — “Walsh!”.

Flipp arrived with his sister, Pony, and to Walsh’s surprise Stella in toe. The worrisome tirade in his mind quelled at the site of the woman. Bianca let go and embraced Pony just as tightly as she had her brother. “Heeey girl.” Pony said reassuringly, catching new tears and dropping some of her own. Flip hugged Walsh tight and headed toward his aunt’s room with Bianca and his sister. Leaving Walsh and Stella alone. Only feet apart.

They stared for a moment trying and failing to read expressions through masks. Generally neither liked silence, but it meant something different with each other. There was no need to force anything. It was clear she’d read through his black book and finished it. The last two pages. Walsh thought to himself. Then, “Flipp didn’t really have the details...wanna talk where we can see more of each other's faces?” she joked. Walsh’s eyes creased as he smiled beneath his.

They sat in corner chairs of the lounge area. Walsh explained what Bianca had about their mother, attempting to assist a patient at the adult daycare his family owned. Walsh choked, biting back tears. Stella’s hand found a place at his neck’s nape. “Dat tournament...was my only hope of being able to help her.” He breathed another sigh hiding a few droplets as best he could. Stella did similarly.

“Well,” she sniffed. “Maybe not.” Walsh turned a curious face. From her purse she offered an envelope. “I read it...every word, every page...twice.” She chuckled. Pausing for his response. Feeling a chill Walsh spoke, “Those last couple pages...I—”, “That…” Stella said, cutting him off.

“That I read more than twice...like seventeen or something.” She smiled lightly. “Oh.” Was all Walsh could muster. “And…Or but?”.

Taking one of Walsh’s wrapped hands she undid the protective cloth methodically. She held it tight in both of hers caressing the small scars on his knuckles before pressing them to her lips. “I need...I wanna keep myself to myself right now Walsh, but...you mean so much to me...and I think you could mean a bit more. Maybe.” she mused. He was hardly breathing. Plus she wore that stare: I mean it and I want you to feel how much. Did he ever.

“Don’t be mad, but I submitted some writings to different contests. Only one of’em won a prize, but...t’was the biggest.” She relinquished his hand. He finished reading exhaling a breath like he’d ended a training session. “Twenty-thous…”, He couldn’t get the words out. He slumped in his seat clutching a form of salvation that he never thought possible. Stella gathered up his wrapping and put it in her purse before standing and taking his hand.

He stood to rise above her. Craning his neck their foreheads met. “You really do make people better.” he said. She squeezed his clasped hand and looked up. “Riiight?” She said cutely. Without letting go they walked slowly and silently to his mothers room. The whole way.