She salutes me like a soldier, “Yessir!”
Carefree and not at all concerned with identity and placement in this society, Sarah might end up disappearing on her eighteenth birthday like so many others. Without a visible and brand-worthy identity (and unless you fix yourself to one) you disappear from society. You become brandless. You are just another person, faceless and making do.
I have always feared that sort of scenario.
However, when I see the anonymous so quick, so carefree, I often wonder if it was their choice. Their decision to be private. Their identity solely theirs, no one else’s.
There might only ever be one Sarah Mullen.
Maybe she wants it to be that way.
That’s a lot of pressure, being in full control of yourself.
How anyone can do that…I can’t even begin to fathom.
Spencer has his own past. There are other Spencer Mullens out there. I know that a few of them have a Spencer as their trainer. They just don’t let Spencer treat them the way he treats me.
I never got over my social anxiety.
I never got over the fact that people are watching me and they care and yet I still need to say something interesting, something poignant.
I settle for silence.
SILENCE
It beats saying something you regret, something people won’t forget.
Spencer with daughter descends the stairs.
“My, my,” Spencer sounds chipper.
“You wouldn’t believe…” he starts but then stops when he notices that I have boxing gloves on and I am noticeably sweaty.
“I didn’t say you could start training.”
“I needed something to keep my mind off the hysteria.”
Spencer rolls his eyes, “This is the sort of spectacle that increases your brand.” Sarah wanders over to the left corner of the ring and hangs on the ropes.
“Sarah quit that!”
I add, “Yeah you don’t want to sprain your ankle.”
Out of breath. This is bad.
“Look at you, you wasted all that energy.”
“I have to train, Spencer.”
“What did I say? Huh?”
I know what he said.
I know, I know. But a fighter trains before a big fight.
“It’s hopeless. Every punch you throw is one less you can throw in the ring on fight night. Your training days are over. Now it’s about fight psychology, staying attuned to your fighter instincts, and most of alclass="underline" Eat healthy.”
I throw a few jabs.
“Three down the shitter, right there.”
“Only jabs, Spencer. This is helping me. It helps center me.”
He sighs, “Wait until you hear about what they’ve done to you. You’ll be brimming with confidence!”
I BECOME THE PERSON VIEWED
IN THE HEADLINES
Happy I have the boxing gloves and hands taped up otherwise I’d be compelled to scratch at my face. The media took the rumor and took on the remainder of Spencer’s plan. It has reached the authorities and media consultant experts have been quoted saying things like “inconclusive” and “it is quite possible” while the story as a whole is shrouded in mystery.
It’s because there is no data.
Nothing besides what Spencer knows and won’t tell me.
(Thank you, I don’t want to know.)
EVERY BOXER REGISTERS THEIR HANDS
AS WEAPONS
And I am no different.
You can train the human body to be a murder weapon.
My knuckles are split and scarred. If I were to punch a wall, I wouldn’t feel much of anything. I’d leave a mark, the impact might break the skin, but, like I used to always say to fans during meet-and-greets (when I still had them; that’s another worry — why haven’t I been receiving any meet-and-greet requests?), what you don’t feel can’t hurt you.
WHAT YOU DON’T FEEL CAN’T HURT YOU
Then you see how the following doesn’t hurt.
It actually helps the ‘Sugar’ Willem Floures brand.
Let spill some media slander—
“How disgraceful!”
“Are we to think a professional can act in such a deplorable manner?!”
“This is no act of god.”
“This is the problem with society: Its identity is rife with absolutes. Freedom is not an accessory. It is something you value and control!”
“Taking bets on the next great league…”
“It was a long time ago. We all make mistakes…”
“Can we really forgive him?”
“X must be worried.”
“Praise a fighter for his failures and mistakes and you praise this crooked world for how numb it has become.”
“Who said you can kill a person and get away with it? Oh, that’s right — Floures.”
“I used to watch every Floures fight. ‘Sugar’ stood out. He was the best of the best. Now I just don’t know anymore…”
“We will see if the demons get their due.”
“Executioner, you have yourself a criminal to cull.”
The world is ripe with anger and hostility.
“It’s a sight to behold,” Spencer smiles.
The concerned and guilty version of me would start worrying, rambling about how this might backfire; the guilty version would go against what Spencer just showed me. Guilt has a way about shutting up if you shut down the right avenues of feeling. I unlace the boxing gloves. I yawn.
I work on unraveling the tape.
I don’t say a word.
I picture the near future. I get into character.
Tap into the fighter, the ‘Sugar’ in Willem Floures.
I am seeing not hearing.
I am seeing not feeling.
Spencer is somewhere else, catering to the chaos of the lie. He will tend to it while I tend to nothing. I must get into character if I’m going to get through this. No thoughts about what’s impending. No thoughts at all about how large portions of the audience will be watching because they hate me. The hate will fuel me; their hate will ensure a sold-out fight night.
I am seeing the future like it is the past.
I get into character, pretending that I haven’t changed one bit.
So what if I lied?
LIES
I can condition myself to see the vast array of a varied past.
The lies will lull me into a guilty sleep but I must stay awake.
Sarah carries the gloves away from me, stowing them in the locker down the hall. Spencer ascends the steps, “Got to get back to it. I’m about to submit a written interview. Hope you don’t mind that I’m writing it as you. They wanted to speak directly to you. I would have asked you but…” he shrugs his shoulders, “you know.”
I nod.
Centering myself.
Push that piece of information away. Not to be concerned.
I am seeing.
I am seeing:
HEADLIGHTS
I am seeing that I can still focus in on the straight line, the angle of fight logic; I can still walk that long mile, that all-too-quick stroll from locker room to ringside. I can tune out the world while the world can’t so much as tune into what I’m thinking. What are we thinking?
We are ready to fight.
Executioner, I know what you are thinking right now.
ARE YOU READY?
It is almost time.
Does it bother you that I’ve murdered someone? Does it bother you that because I murdered someone, it means you did the same?
Willem Floures is a murderer.
We are currently under the scrutiny of the moralized public.
For however many that care, there are twice as many that expect one of us to end up on a stretcher after the rematch.
Blood will be shed.
AT THE WEIGH-IN
WHAT WILL YOU TELL ME
THAT I DON’T ALREADY KNOW?
ANYTHING LEFT WORTH SOME SURPRISE?
There comes a time when it pays more to push rather than play along.
Alone in the basement, I focus on the heavy bag.