"Check his nose, Greg," Abby said quietly. "It's broken, but the cartilage isn't pushed in. Tell him to keep ice on it for 20 minutes." Abby turned and walked toward the heavy steel door of the gym. He pushed the aluminum bar, stepping out into the cool, overcast afternoon. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the heavy smell of ego and blood trapped inside.
Gregory stood on the edge of the blue mat, staring at the small, dark droplets of crimson staining the canvas. He held a spray bottle of diluted bleach in one hand and a rag in the other. He didn't spray immediately. He just looked at the blood. Over in the corner, Thorne sat slumped on the same wooden bench Abby had occupied 20 minutes earlier.
An industrial-sized Ziploc bag full of crushed ice was pressed hard against his face. His pristine white GI pants were ruined, smeared with his own blood from where he had desperately wiped his nose. The gym was entirely empty. Thorne's entourage hadn't stuck around to offer condolences or help him to his car. The moment Abby had walked out that steel door, the illusion of Thorne's invincibility had shattered.
His sycophants didn't know how to process a god bleeding on the floor, beaten by a man old enough to collect social security, so they had muttered vague excuses about needing to get back to work or feed their dogs, and they had bolted. Fairweather friends rarely stick around for the storm. "You should go to the urgent care," Gregory said, finally squeezing the trigger on the spray bottle. The harsh chemical smell of bleach cut through the stale air. "Get an X-ray.
Make sure there are no bone fragments floating around your sinus cavity. Thorne squeezed his eyes shut. A muffled nasal voice leaked out from beneath the ice pack. It's not broken, just busted cartilage. Gregory scrubbed the mat, his motions tight and angry.
You don't know that. You don't know anything, Thorne. That much became painfully obvious today. Thorne lowered the ice pack, glaring at his coach with one good eye. The other was already swelling shut, turning a bruised, modeled purple.
You're taking his side. The guy sucker punched me. Gregory stopped scrubbing. He dropped the rag onto the canvas, stood up, and walked over to the bench. He towered over his star pupil.
The exhaustion in Gregory's face had hardened into something cold and unyielding. Sucker punched you. Gregory's voice was dangerously quiet. He stood right in front of you. You initiated the engagement.
You threw the first strike. He gave you a masterclass in proximity and leverage, and he did it without breaking a sweat. Do not sit there and lie to yourself to save your fragile ego. Thorne looked away, staring at the scuffed concrete floor. The silence between them stretched, thick and uncomfortable.
"Who is he?" Thorne finally asked. The arrogance completely bled out of his tone, leaving only a hollow, confused kid behind. Abby Kelly," Gregory said, leaning back against the chain link of the octagon. "We served together, first recon, then he went into Mars, Marine Special Operations. He spent 25 years doing things in the dark that allow people like you to play under these bright fluorescent lights." Thorne swallowed hard.
"He didn't fight like a sport guy. He's not a sport guy," Gregory snapped. "He doesn't care about points. He doesn't care about tapping you out. Men like Abby are trained to neutralize threats as quickly and brutally as humanly possible so they can go home.
You made yourself a threat. And frankly, Thorne, he went incredibly easy on you. If he wanted to, he could have driven that knee through your sternum and collapsed your lung. He chose not to. Thorne brought the ice pack back to his face.
The throbbing pain in his nose was nothing compared to the burning shame radiating through his chest. He had been so arrogant. He had looked at a quiet, unassuming man and seen only weakness. Meanwhile, three miles away, Abby Kelly sat on the edge of his faded corduroy armchair, staring blankly at a muted television screen. His house was small, tidy, and utterly silent.
There were no photographs of his military service on the walls, no metals displayed in shadow boxes. The only decorations were a few framed botanical prints and a shelf lined with worn paperback novels. Aby's hands trembled. He gripped the armrests of the chair, his knuckles turning white, forcing the tremor to stop. It wasn't fear.
It was the biological tax of violence. The adrenaline dump was receding, leaving a toxic puddle of cortisol in its wake. His heart rate was slowly coming down, but his body felt like it had been run through an industrial press. His left knee screamed in a continuous high-pitched agony. The sharp drop in elevation he had used to slip Thornne's hook had completely aggravated the shredded meniscus.
His L4 and L5 vertebrae ground together, sending dull, heavy shocks of pain down his sciatic nerve. Abby gritted his teeth, closed his eyes, and controlled his breathing. In through the nose, 4 seconds, hold for four. Out through the mouth, 4 seconds. He hated this.
He had spent the last 10 years meticulously building a life of profound, boring peace. He grew heirloom tomatoes in his backyard. He volunteered at the local animal shelter twice a month. He read history books. He had locked the monster in the basement and swallowed the key.
But it only took 3 minutes of arrogant provocation to realize the monster was still there, sitting in the dark, waiting. It wasn't the physical pain that bothered Abby the most. It was how effortless the violence had been. How naturally it had returned to him. When he stepped onto that canvas, he hadn't felt anger.
He hadn't felt pride. He had felt the cold familiar embrace of absolute detachment. He had looked at a 24year-old kid and evaluated him purely as a mechanical problem to be disassembled. Abby opened his eyes. He slowly pushed himself up from the chair. heavily favoring his right leg.
He limped into the small kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and pulled out a cheap domestic beer. He didn't bother with a glass. He cracked the aluminum tab, leaned against the laminate counter, and took a long, slow drink. He looked out the window at his backyard. The sun was beginning to set, casting long, golden shadows across his meticulously plotted raised garden beds.
The green vines of the tomato plants looked vibrant against the dark, rich soil. He needed to water them. It was a simple task, a gentle task. Abby finished the beer, tossed the can into the recycling bin, and limped out the back door. He grabbed the green rubber hose, turned the brass spigot, and watched the water arc into the dirt.
The smell of wet earth rose into the evening air, grounding him. He focused on the water. He focused on the soil. He focused on anything other than the crunch of bone he had felt beneath his forehead hours earlier. He was an old man trying to be good, but the world, it seemed, was constantly demanding he prove how dangerous he used to be.
3 days passed. The swelling in Aby's knee had finally subsided from a roar to a dull, manageable ache, courtesy of a strict regimen of ibuprofen, ice, and stubbornness. It was a Tuesday morning. The air was crisp, carrying the early bitter promise of autumn. Abby sat on his front porch in a battered wooden rocking chair.
He wore a heavy flannel shirt, nursing a mug of black tea, watching a pair of blue jays fight over a peanut in his front yard. A rusted black Toyota Tacoma turned onto his street. Abby watched the truck slow down, its tires crunching over the loose gravel near his mailbox. He didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't tense up.