The bone had snapped and twisted, leaving jagged, vicious splinters. "We had to go in and stabilize it," Miller said, pointing to the ghostly white lines on the screen. "One titanium plate, nine screws. You've got a lot of soft tissue damage. Muscle tearing, tendon strain.
It's going to be 6 weeks before the cast comes off and another 4 to 6 months of aggressive physical therapy before you get functional mobility back. " Declan swallowed the dry lump in his throat. "When can I train again? " Miller looked at him over the rim of his glasses. It was the exact same look Hayes had given him. "You don't. Not this year.
Maybe not ever, if you want to avoid chronic arthritis by the time you're 30. You need to understand, son, this wasn't a sports injury. Your arm was subjected to the kind of torque we usually see in motorcycle crashes. " Declan spent the next 3 days in a haze of oxycodone and daytime television. When he finally went home to his apartment, the reality of his new existence set in. Everything was a battle.
Opening a jar of peanut butter required trapping it between his knees and awkwardly twisting the lid with his left hand. Showering meant wrapping his cast in two trash bags and taping them down, only to stand shivering under the water, feeling utterly pathetic. He couldn't tie his shoes. He couldn't drive his manual transmission car. He slept in a recliner because lying flat caused a deep, agonizing ache to settle into the marrow of his collarbone.
2 weeks into his recovery, he stopped taking the painkillers. He wanted his mind sharp, even if it meant his body ached. He found himself staring at the medals hanging off the corner of his bedroom mirror. Gold, silver, bronze, regional championships, state opens. They clinked together when the air conditioning kicked on.
They looked cheap now, pieces of stamped metal hanging on ribbon. 6 weeks passed. The cast came off. That was worse than the break. When the technician split the fiberglass and pulled it away, Declan almost threw up.
His arm didn't look like his arm. The sculpted bicep was gone, replaced by a flaccid, pale strip of atrophied meat. His skin was yellowed and flaky, covered in dark, coarse hair. Running down the outside of his triceps was a vicious, angry, red scar, 9 in long, puckered and stitched like Frankenstein's monster. He tried to make a fist.
His fingers trembled, weak and uncoordinated. He couldn't even squeeze a foam stress ball. He started physical therapy. It was humiliating. The man who used to deadlift 300 lb was now sweating and gritting his teeth trying to lift a 2-lb pink vinyl dumbbell above his shoulder.
A month into his rehab, he decided to visit his home gym. It was a Tuesday evening. The suburban facility was bright, smelling of eucalyptus wipes and fresh acai bowls from the front desk cafe. The mats were a pristine, unbroken sea of royal blue. His head coach, Greg, saw him walk in and immediately stopped the class.
Greg jogged over, clapping a heavy hand on Declan's good shoulder. Look who it is, the man himself, Greg announced. The class clapped politely. A few lower belts offered sympathetic nods. Declan forced a smile.
Hey Greg, just wanted to stop by. We miss you on the mats, brother, Greg said, his voice dripping with forced optimism. Take your time. Do your PT. We'll have you back tapping these guys out in no time.
You're a warrior. Declan nodded, but the word tasted sour in his head. Warrior. He stood by the edge of the mat and watched the sparring session. Two purple belts were rolling in the center.
They were technically brilliant. One of them, a lanky kid, inverted smoothly, locking up a complicated leg entanglement, working for a heel hook. He had a beautiful, relaxed smile on his face as he hunted for the submission. Declan watched them, but he wasn't seeing a grappling match anymore. He saw the lanky kid exposing the back of his head to the concrete.
He saw the other guy's hands totally free, perfectly positioned to grab a rock, a bottle, a handful of gravel. He saw the rules. He saw the invisible safety net wrapping the entire room. They were playing a game of human chess, secure in the knowledge that no matter what happened, nobody was going to die today. "They're too relaxed. " Declan muttered almost to himself.
Greg overheard him and chuckled. "They're just flowing, Deck. It's light rolling, keeping it playful. " "Playful? " Declan repeated. He looked down at his own right arm hanging limply at his side in a compression sleeve. He remembered the smell of the basement.
He remembered the heavy click of the deadbolt. He remembered the terrifying absolute certainty in Hayes's eyes when the older man lifted his boot. The threat is still in the room. I am the threat. Declan didn't stay to watch the rest of the class.
He walked out without saying goodbye. He realized then that he couldn't come back here. Not because his arm was broken, but because his mind was broken. The illusion had been shattered and he couldn't unsee the cracks. It was raining heavily when Declan stepped off the city bus.
The water came down in cold gray sheets turning the Baltimore gutters into rushing rivers of trash and oil slick. He pulled his hood up with his left hand tucking his weak right arm into the pocket of his jacket. He stood across the street from the unmarked concrete building. He had stood in this exact spot 3 months ago feeling like a conqueror looking for new lands to pillage. Today, he felt like a ghost haunting his own grave.
He crossed the street and pulled open the heavy outer door. He walked down the narrow dimly lit stairwell. The smell hit him instantly. Ammonia, old sweat, and damp canvas. It didn't smell like eucalyptus.
It smelled like desperation. He opened the basement door and stepped inside. The gym was empty. The lights were half-dimmed casting long bruised shadows across the taped seams of the mats. In the far corner near the heavy bags, a figure was moving rhythmically.
Hayes was mopping the floor. He was wearing the same faded cargo pants and a black t-shirt. He pushed the heavy wet string mop across the vinyl with slow, deliberate strokes. He didn't look up when the door clicked shut behind Declan. He just kept mopping.
Declan stood by the edge of the mat. He didn't say anything. He just watched the older man work. For 10 minutes, the only sound in the room was the wet slap of the mop and the distant hum of the building's plumbing. Finally, Hayes wrung the mop out into a yellow plastic bucket with a loud ratcheting squeak.
He leaned the wooden handle against the wall and turned around. He looked at Declan. His expression was completely unreadable. It wasn't smug. It wasn't surprised.