Rain pelted against the gym’s metal warehouse roof, creating a pleasant background ambiance for the fighters within. Outside, cars whirred and whished under the hooded light of streetlamps, their tires throwing up wakes of rainwater on the cool blacktop asphalt behind them. On the other side of the reflective glass pane walls, the sound faded in Aloram’s ears as he slid his earbuds firmly into place, replaced by Adam Gontier’s sonorous voice.
Faintly, Aloram heard the beeeep of the timer starting and began the primal dance, the music lulling him into an invigorating trance of movement.
I feel numb
I can't come to life
The music took him to a place of disembodied meditation, stoking the subtle flames of cold fury that built inside him with every punch.
I feel like I'm frozen in time
The drums guided the rhythm of his hands, guiding his flaring emotions into precise outpourings of violence.
Aloram struck the pad on his right, the impact of his gloved fists smacking against the pads sending a satisfying jolt through his balled-up fingers that traveled up his arms. Jab, cross, close hook—a flicker of movement was his only warning as Max, his training partner, swiped a red-black Thai pad at his head.
Aloram leaned back, the leather of the pad and knuckles of Max's hand grazing his shoulder. The blow rolled past inches from his face, and Aloram snapped out a check hook, forcing Max to raise an elbow to his own head for protection. Aloram turned the hook into a grab for the back of Max’s head and pulled his body forward into a rising knee. It slammed into the padded belt around Max’s stomach, causing him to double over, coughing, leaving him hunched over and off balance. Aloram shoved him away, then threw a front teep to Max's belly, sending the other man stumbling backward across the canvas.
Aloram stalked across the ring and grabbed hold of him again. Aloram clasped both arms around Max's head, feeling the slick of sweat from the other man’s hair on his forearms. He pulled Max down and jumped up with a knee to the midsection, which Max was too stunned to block. The air whooshed out of him with a coughing "huh" sound, and his hands went to his stomach. Holding tight to Max’s neck, Aloram twisted his body sideways, jerked Max off balance, and swept his legs out from underneath him. Max’s feet left the ground, and he landed hard, splayed like a ragdoll on the ring's bloodstained canvas floor.
Sweat poured into Aloram’s eyes, stinging them and causing him to blink rapidly. He straightened from the throw and took a fighting stance, his lead foot bouncing lightly. His wrists ached through the tight wraps, his shoulders weighing heavy as leaden bricks from the countless punches and elbows that'd preceded the ring work.
What'd begun as training basic combinations and working on movement in the ring had turned into a one-sided fight to the death. The animal thrill of rage pounding in his head like an angry hammer that took over every time he started throwing punches at another human being had taken hold again, and now, standing over the shaking, heavy-breathing body of his training partner, Aloram had a moment of reflection. Nothing made him feel alive anymore except fighting— If he could spend every moment of every waking day sparring, training, fighting, then maybe he could be happy—just maybe—but this world didn’t allow for that. He would always just be a part of the system. A denizen of this shitty world, plugging away one day at a time just to die, be buried and forgotten. He clenched his teeth harder, grinding his molars hard into his mouthguard.
Waking up every day just to sell drugs to shitbags, spend hours teaching people how to throw punches at inanimate leather sacks so they could feel tough, feel good about themselves, all so he could make just enough money to rent out a shitty apartment that got more expensive every year just to come back to it at the end of the night, sleep, and repeat the whole fucking cycle. And even if he was rich, even if money and women and connections and power were no object, what would it matter? This whole fucking world was the problem. The people here, all of them entitled, idiotically moral, pitifully weak, and dependent on the herd affirmations of their shit brain parties and the bird-feeding-bird vomit regurgitation of their dumb fuck friends—Aloram's fists clenched, and in them, he imagined the throats of the elusive "they," of everyone and everything that annoyed him and escaped retribution.
But ultimately, none of it mattered. Nothing would change. There was nothing he could do here. And he didn't really care. In the meantime, Aloram took comfort in the knowledge that he was different; he was better. No matter the futility of his beliefs, he'd remain true to them, never backing down from an opportunity to assert his will, even if it wouldn't make a difference in the big picture. He was happy to be their demon—their scapegoat. Some people just don’t understand that in an arbitrary, uncaring world, everybody is god, and everybody’s the devil.
Beeeep.
And just like that, the five minutes were over, time gone in a flash. The boiling cauldron of his anger fell to a simmer, then stilled entirely. His racing thoughts slowed and fell away, and Aloram returned to his calm, composed self.
Max lay on the floor before him, thai pads strapped to his arms, sweat glistening on his exposed skin.
*
Slowly, without saying anything, Max began to get to his feet, avoiding looking up at Aloram. He moved to help Aloram out of his 12 oz gloves, his eyes cast down at the canvas, careful not to raise them by accident to Aloram’s own, which were looking at him with a cold, emotionless gaze. To Max, Aloram's eyes felt like ice pressed against his bare skin. He should be pissed at his training partner. But instead, he was terrified. Aloram was a pretty decent fighter, but Max’s fear of him went well beyond that. It was something else entirely. Max had felt it again today, and was all but shaking from it; there was an alienness about Aloram, something monstrous inside of him that Max had always been too unsettled by to confront him about. It went beyond the overt displays of aggression that often led to downright foul play in the ring and, like today, bruised ribs and battered faces in what should've been a few rounds of light technique work. To Max, Aloram's presence in the gym was a blight from which he couldn't escape. There was nowhere else as affordable as Mike's to train within twenty miles, so he just dealt with it, even if Aloram's flareups meant days of pain. Max feared that if he expressed anything but deference to the man, he'd get worse, and this time with the gloves off. Mike, for some reason, loved him, so no help there.
*
Done with training and degloved, Aloram flexed his fingers and took out his earbuds, watching Max as he shuffled away to stow their gear. Was he limping? Aloram rubbed the sweat out of his eyes, then walked to the edge of the ring where his water bottle full of Gatorade stood waiting. He shook his head. He really didn't care; he just wanted to go home and sleep. Even if his apartment did suck, his bed was nice. Aloram had spent what, to him, had been an inordinate amount of time and effort shopping around for the right mattress, and oh yes, he'd found it.
Stooping down, Aloram grabbed the bottle and began to drink. Gatorade slid down his throat like ambrosia, cooling him. The ice in the hydroflask had stayed whole, not melting despite several hours. In buying the bottle, Amanda may have made the only smart decision of her life.
*
The bell on the door of the small gym rang as Michael, the owner, pulled it open. It mildly startled Aloram, as he'd almost forgotten that there was anyone else in the gym besides himself and Max. Looking around, Aloram saw the familiar, forgettable faces of perhaps ten others, all lining up to exit the building. Glancing at the red-numbered digital clock above the door, Aloram saw that they were three minutes past closing time. Rain pattered the sidewalk outside, and the scent of wet pavement wafted in. It was the sort of city dark out that really just meant the stars were hidden by light pollution and tall buildings, and the streets were cast in an endless twilight of electric power and overpopulation.
“Lock up, Al,” Michael said gruffly and tossed the key lanyard through the air to where Aloram stood on the elevated ring in the center of the room.
Aloram snatched them out of the air with his free hand still bound in blue boxing wraps. He swallowed, lowered the bottle, and nodded to the man.
Middle-aged, Mike had boxed semi-professionally for a few years before moving to Thailand to learn their national art, then took up MMA and started coaching in his forties. He’d had a middle-of-the-road career but had gotten his licks in.
Holding the door open with his foot to allow a few others to file out in front of him, Michael nodded back, the fluorescent light above the door glinting on his bald head.
“Have a good one, man,” Aloram said.
“You too, Al. Take care of yourself,” he said before exiting himself and closing the door behind him.
The door swung closed as Mike filed out behind the last of the guests, and the bell tinkled softly behind him.
Max returned, gloves stowed in the cubby, Thai pads and belt in the closet, and a bottle of water in his hands. He slunk under the rope and walked across the ring to join Aloram.
Max looked up at him for what Aloram noticed was the first time since they'd started training earlier in the day.
“What’s up?” Aloram said, taking another swig of Gatorade.
Max stood in silence, holding his own bottle in rigid fingers that were still cold despite the muggy gym and countless rounds of training.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
What’s up….? You come at me like an animal, hit the pads like you want to kill somebody, then never say anything about it. What’s up is that we’ve trained together for three years, and you’ve never once mentioned your life outside of training. And that cold, dead look in your eyes….
Max looked up at them now, staring off into the space beyond the corrugated metal ceiling as he drank. They were a pale grey and utterly devoid of emotion. He'd lost interest in Max within seconds of speaking to him.
Oh, but he has interest and emotion enough when we spar; the blood in my mouth and the bruises on my ribs can attest to that.
“Nothing, man. I’m beat.” Max set his bottle down, suddenly feeling like his stomach couldn’t handle even a single drop of the electrolyte water inside.
Max stooped for his draw-string bag, slinging it over his shoulders hurriedly. Even though Aloram was standing there drinking from what he was sure was Amanda's hydroflask, calm as could be, Max didn't like having his hands occupied around him. Around Aloram, it was always better to be prepared and on edge; Max always felt like Aloram could strike at the drop of a hat, with no reason at all. Being alone in the gym with him was unnerving.
*
Aloram eyed Max as he donned the bag. Something was up with him, but he didn’t care enough to try figuring it out. People were strange and often disappointing; it was best not to dwell on their idiosyncrasies. Waiting for Max to finish putting on his pack, he swung the lanyard in circles, wrapping and unwrapping it around his finger.
Max turned back to face him, and Aloram caught a glimpse of uneasiness in his features before it melted into a familiar, if slightly strained, smile.
“Let’s get out of here,” Max said.
“Sounds good to me,” Al said, ducking under the top rope and hopping lightly to the floor.
Standing alone in the ring, Max stared momentarily at the back of Aloram’s sweaty shirt and long, matted black hair, then followed. It had a picture of some white-haired anime character on the back with a blindfold on; below, it read, "Under heaven, one is alone worthy of honor." Max shook his head, then followed.
*
The door clicked behind them. Shoulders hunched against the rain, Aloram twisted the key, sliding the bolt into place with an audible snap. Attached to the straight metal bar that was the door’s handle was a thick metal lockbox. He slid the cover down, rolled the numbers into the correct position, and popped out the face, returning the key.
He closed it and began walking down the sidewalk, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets.
Aloram heard Max’s voice call from behind.
“Later, man. See you tomorrow.”
Oh, right. I'm supposed to say goodbye.
Pivoting on his toe mid-stride, Aloram began to walk backward. Facing Max, he smiled, lips curling up to the corners of his mouth. He raised his hand and gave a crisp wave, then spun on his foot and kept walking; as soon as his back was turned, the smile vanished from Aloram’s lips, replaced by a single hard line.
Max stared after him, only realizing that he’d unconsciously held his breath when he released a long, heavy sigh.
*
Aloram breathed in the city air. It was cold, and that, together with the rain, helped to mask the reek of shit and piss that was the ever-present odor of his fun little corner of hell. Helped mask it a little. Nothing could truly hide the rot that permeated this place: the decay of uglier things than just scattered trash and excess produce.
Aloram strode down the grey sidewalk, hands in his pockets, hood pulled up. He listened to the light rain pattering against his hoodie and the pavement, the whisking of cars passing beside him, and the rise and fall of a siren’s wail in the distance.
His car was parked several blocks away in a temporary street spot, but luckily, parking enforcement didn’t seem to check or care if you were parked there for thirty minutes or three hundred.
He approached a homeless man, his scabby, eczematous skin bare beside the dirty white sheet wrapped around him like a ratty imitation toga. The rain had plastered his ragged hair to his face and neck, but it still succeeded in looking greasy and unwashed despite the wetness. He watched Aloram with rabid eyes open too wide, pupils big as black olives. Ahead, pedestrians were crossing to the other side of the street to avoid interacting with him.
The vagrant shouted something unintelligible at him, his arms jerking around, flailing wildly. Aloram surveyed him as he approached, silently daring the man to do something, not diverting his course. Not that he wanted to hurt this guy—he didn’t—but he would. Showing that he wasn’t backing down seemed enough of a deterrent to get through to him, and the man turned away, unconvincingly captivated by something on the pavement below, muttering. Aloram passed him and stood on the edge of the block, waiting for the traffic signal to turn.
The rain fell into his face, onto his skin, trickling down his neck and cooling him. He never minded the rain—welcomed it, in fact. Something about it made him feel closer to the moment, more present. He was in his element as he crossed the street, sneakers splashing through puddles, walking close to the buildings to avoid passersby, and the occasional wall of water that showered the sidewalk’s edge when cars passed too close to the curb.
He was getting close to his favorite part of the walk.
*
The wall of the Star Donut Shop ended as he passed it, the mouth of its back alley yawning open beside him. He walked by it daily on his way back to his usual parking spot and had become familiar acquaintances with the calico cat who resided there, scavenging the many dumpsters that populated the dark corridor for tasty leftovers.
But today, his feline friend wasn’t waiting for him. Instead, a shouting man, bald and towering, stood over a shivering woman. He wore a grey jumper, the hood down, thick tattoos peeking out from the neckline, and below pushed-up sleeves.
The woman, frail and skeleton white, was dressed in a short, stringy black dress despite the rain; a sheet of long, dark, dripping hair stuck to the pale skin of her exposed shoulders, and mascara ran down her face from below her eyes— one of which sported a blue-purple bruise. Aloram watched her bright red mouth moving; blood flowed from her broken lower lip, mixing with the rain and streaking down her chin.
“—din’t pay, I’m sorry, I’ll—”
The sharp clap of a palm on wet skin cut her off. Her head snapped to the side, and she sprawled backward against the brick wall behind her. The bald man’s hand was around her jaw now, fingers digging into her cheeks and pressing her head back against the bricks. He squeezed, the tendons on his hand and forearm standing out, fingernails cutting red marks into her face.
“I don’t give a fuck what happened; you make the quota,” he said and spat on the ground.
He threw her viciously aside, slamming noisily into a blue metal dumpster. She collapsed onto the wet floor, her hands slipping in discarded waste as her knees and elbows scraped against the asphalt. The big man stood over her, his back to Aloram, cursing down at her as she pushed herself weakly into a sitting position, hair falling across her battered face.
“Don’t you have any respect, you fucking bitch?” He squatted in front of her, grabbed her by the hair, and lifted her face to his.
“How’re you gonna pay for everything I’ve given you if you don’t make no fucking money?” He jerked her head, the painful whiplashing of her neck emphasizing his point.
Her eyes were wide and unfocused; she was obviously concussed and probably under the influence of something; from here, Aloram couldn't tell what. Blood trickled, then ran from a gash on the side of her head. She touched it with a thin hand. Seeing the blood on her fingers, her eyes focused and cleared. Her demeanor shifted, and the woman began cursing and spitting up at the man holding her by the hair.
"Fuck you! Fuckin' ass hole, your cock is the only thing smaller than your brain, you fucking---" The man's free fist smashed into her teeth, cutting her off.
She released a guttural scream, laughing and spitting blood and saliva up into his face, her fingers clawing at the wrist of the hand holding her by the hair.
"You punshh lie a bishh wihh---" Her slurred tirade was cut off again as the man snarled, let go of her hair, and kicked her in the solar plexus with a booted foot. She collapsed in a puddle, her head smacking the hard, wet ground.
Lying there, unmoving, her slitted eyes met Aloram’s. He was standing, hands in his pockets, watching from the mouth of the alley. He smiled at her, fingering the three-inch Dewalt pocket knife folded closed in his front hoodie pouch, thumb rubbing on the familiar worn metal of the opening lever. The rain fell around him as he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, loosening up, deciding how to play with his new toy.
“The fuck did you say? I can't fucking hear you." The man kicked her in the groin, but the woman only shivered, either unconscious or in physical shock.
Aloram padded towards them with quiet footsteps, the sound of his measured footfalls muffled by the rain.
The man stomped on one of her outstretched arms, snapping the bones in her wrist. Aloram was getting quite close as his opponent turned around, presumably ready to accept his losses and move on. He was tall, taller than Aloram himself, easily 6’3 or 6’4. Heavyset shoulders bulged through the sodden jacket, and his pulled-up sleeves revealed tattooed forearms rippling with muscle.
Rivulets of water ran from his bald head down to his flat nose. He sneered at Aloram, then dropped a hand to his waistband where the outline of something rectangular pressed against the jacket’s fabric from underneath.
“The fuck are you looking at, Smiley?” he said, stepping towards Aloram. "You want a go at her? Sorry, she's done for the night."
Aloram smiled, then punched the man in the stomach. The pimp doubled over, the air rushing out of him with a whooshing sound. He reached for his waistband, but before he could draw his gun, Aloram grabbed the outside of his elbow, pulling his arm across his body and slipping to his side. Aloram swept his arm around the big man’s legs, then lifted him and dumped him onto the wet asphalt floor. The gun came free of the man’s pants, and Aloram tossed it down the alleyway towards the entrance.
They struggled on the ground, the pimp cursing and punching futilely up at him, but Aloram’s years of jiu-jitsu and wrestling training easily won out, and soon Aloram had taken the larger man’s back. Aloram dug his forehead into the back of the man’s neck, protecting his head as he wrapped his legs around the man’s torso, securing a body lock and squeezing the breath out of him while he fished for the man’s neck with his arms. The bigger man had stopped talking and was only grunting, spitting, and trying unsuccessfully to free himself from Aloram’s grasp. Aloram got his right arm under the man’s chin, driving his elbow as deep as it would go before locking up the rear naked choke.
Aloram could feel the man convulsing, twisting, trying desperately to escape from the inescapability of his limbs. He reveled in it. Sweet dopamine coursed through his veins as the exciting adrenaline of what he was doing surged inside of him, causing his heart to beat faster and faster. In the gym, he’d always had to stop when they tapped out. He’d pretended not to feel it a few times, or pretended not to hear as they grunted “tap, tap,” panic rising in their voice. In matches, he always made them sleep. But tonight… tonight he’d do more than just put him to sleep.
The thrashing stopped, the man going limp in Aloram’s grip. He held on. Long seconds passed, but Aloram didn’t let go. He squeezed harder, arching his back and pushing his hips forwards, making the choke as tight as possible. When he was sure the man was dead, he let him go, rolling the man off of him. His body flopped face up into a puddle. Aloram got on his knees over the man’s torso, mounting him like a playground bully, and grabbed the underside of his right wrist with his own left hand, then snaking his right arm underneath the man’s elbow creating a figure four lock. Aloram dragged the man’s arm down the asphalt, elevating his elbow and breaking the man’s shoulder, tearing everything in his rotator cuff.
Once the mangled arm was nearly completely inverted, he let go and did the same thing to the other side. Taking his time, he broke both of the man’s shoulders, his elbows, his wrists, knees, and ankles, using all of the breaks he’d spent thousands of hours training over the past decade. Aloram reveled in the sounds of the breaking bones, the visceral feeling in his hands as they cracked beneath the surface of the skin. The whole process took less than five minutes.
Finally, kneeling on the man’s chest, Aloram drew the Dewalt pocket knife and flicked it open, the lever clicking into place with an audible snick, locking the blade straight. Slowly, Aloram pressed the tip of the knife against the pale, clammy skin of the man’s neck, right where the soft flesh of his jaw met his throat. A bead of blood pricked to the surface, then the knife slid all the way in, the blade disappearing to the hilt. Aloram twisted the knife to the left, then all the way back to the right. Blood dribbled from the wound, then poured out as he removed the knife, soaking into the man’s grey hoodie and trickling down the side of his neck and into the puddle in which he lay.
A small smile possessed Aloram’s face like a specter as he stood, rising to his feet. Rain fell around him. Despite it, the night was quiet and still. For a moment, the entire world was perfect, and he was at its center.
The ephemeral sense of euphoria slipped away, the moment passing like a dream upon waking from a deep slumber. Aloram looked down at his hands, his skin and the knife slick with warm blood, and frowned. He stooped down to grab a dirty hand towel that’d fallen from the dumpster. It was soaked through, but it would work. He began to wipe first the knife, then himself.
The woman lay there, barely conscious, watching, her eyes fixed on the mutilated corpse, dead in a pool of water slowly turning red with its own blood, ripples of raindrops disturbing the surface. She didn’t look away until her eyes were drawn to motion above her.
His hands clean and the knife tucked back safely away in his pocket, Aloram turned and began walking back out of the alleyway. There were no cameras here, and what little blood had gotten onto the sleeve of his jacket blended in with the black fabric and the rain. I’ll just have to wash it when I get home.
Walking back to the sidewalk, he felt calm, the cool rain trickling through his hair and down the back of his neck. His breath misted in the air, a foggy white cloud that grew from his lips and expanded into the night when he breathed. He should get back soon; it was getting late, and he was getting distastefully cold. Thoughts of the warm shower waiting for him back at his apartment arose in his mind, and he smiled.
A shaky, slurred voice called from the alley behind him.
“hell me," it said, the noise almost inaudible over the rain.
Aloram stopped, turned, and regarded the woman. During the whole exchange, he’d barely noticed her. She had pushed herself away from the dead pimp and was propped up against the dumpster, pale and thin, her eyes dazed and vacant but clinging to life.
"What's your name?" Aloram shouted.
“Kitty.” He more read her lips than heard her.
Aloram laughed. He took off his jacket, and tossed it to her. It was soaked through, but still better than the meager dress she was currently wearing. At least it won’t be hypothermia that gets you.
The rain amplified, coming down in heavy sheets. It hammered the roofs of the buildings on either side, strong rivers running out of rain gutters. Thick drops hit the pavement at his feet, bouncing, hissing loudly. Aloram turned away, and without a second thought, walked the last few blocks to his car.