The hardest part of the journey was the stairs. The fourteen wooden steps leading up to his apartment above the dry cleaner were steep, narrow, and structurally uneven. To Victor, they looked like a mountain. He gripped the wobbly wooden handrail with his left hand, clamped his cane in his right, and began the ascent. He took it one step at a time. Plant the cane, step with the good leg, drag the bad leg up, rest, breathe, repeat. By the time he reached the landing, he was breathing heavily, his chest heaving under the tweed coat. He fumbled with his keys, unlocked the deadbolt, and pushed the heavy wooden door open. His apartment was dark, smelling faintly of boiled cabbage, dust, and the chemical solvent from the dry cleaner downstairs. It was a sterile, lonely smell. He didn’t turn on the lights. He didn’t need them. He knew the geography of this small room better than he knew his own face. He dropped his coat on the back of a wooden chair. He walked into the tiny yellow-tiled bathroom and turned on the hot water in the sink. He waited for it to steam, then soaked a washcloth. He held the scalding cloth against his bruised knuckles, hissing through his teeth as the heat pulled the stagnant blood toward the surface. He looked up at the mirror above the sink. The glass was cheap and slightly warped, but it didn’t lie. He saw an old man. He saw the sunken cheeks, the deep trenches around his mouth, the crooked nose, and the cauliflower ear. He saw a man who had outlived his era, outlived his peers, and outlived his purpose. He dropped the washcloth into the sink. He walked into his small kitchen, grabbed a dishtowel, and wrapped one of the bags of frozen peas. He walked into the living room and sat down heavily in his worn armchair, pressing the freezing bag against his throbbing right shoulder. He sat there in the gloom, listening to the hum of the refrigerator. The physical pain was immense, but it was familiar. It was an old friend.
What bothered him was the psychological door he had opened in the park. For years, he had operated under a strict philosophy of pacifism. He had believed that avoiding violence was the ultimate victory. He had taken the insults, the shoves, the disrespect of a loud, arrogant, modern world, and he had swallowed it. He had convinced himself that standing down was strength. But as he sat in the dark, nursing his bruised knuckles, he realized the flaw in his philosophy. Pacifism without the capacity for violence isn’t a choice. It’s just a lack of options. If you are harmless, you are not peaceful. You are simply defenseless. True peace was a choice made by a man who had the absolute power to destroy his enemy, but deliberately chose to keep his hands in his pockets. He had kept his hands in his pockets for decades. He had paid his penance, but today the world had demanded a tax he refused to pay. He thought about Kyle unconscious on the concrete. He thought about Jace gasping for air on his knees. He thought about Brad paralyzed by the sheer unadulterated reality of consequence. He didn’t feel guilty. He had not attacked them. He had simply introduced them to the physics they were mocking. He had shown them the bottom of the deep water they were carelessly splashing in. Victor took the ice pack off his shoulder. He stood up from the armchair. He ignored the burning in his joints and the fatigue in his bones. He walked to the center of the small living room. He planted his feet on the faded linoleum. He widened his stance. He tucked his chin. He raised his hands, settling into a perfect balanced guard. He didn’t see the cramped apartment. He didn’t smell the cabbage. He didn’t feel seventy-two years old. He took a sharp hissing breath in through his teeth. He slipped his head to the left, pivoting on his back foot, and threw a flawless blistering left jab into the empty air. The snap of his arm was sharp enough to make the fabric of his shirt crack like a whip. He immediately pulled the hand back to his cheek, flawlessly balanced, entirely protected. He held the pose for three seconds in the silent room. The ghost wasn’t gone. The ghost was just resting. Victor slowly lowered his hands. A small genuine smile touched the corners of his scarred mouth. He was tired. He was bruised. He was invisible to a world that worshiped youth and noise, but he knew exactly who he was. And if the world ever forgot, he still had the hands to remind them. He walked back to his armchair, picked up his ice pack, and sat down in the quiet dark, waiting for tomorrow.