The Game I Can't Win

“One more.”

“Alexei, I don’t think you shou- “

“One more.”

The smell of chalk hangs everywhere. The powder creeps up my nose and inside my clothes. It has that specific odor. One that reminds me of the time I accidentally ate a piece of chalk after I got hit in the head. Sweat coats my forehead, but I don’t bother to clean it up. The last rays of sunlight reflect across the hall, lifting the eerie atmosphere of my boxing club. My hands crash against the bag. It caves like it’s made of paper. It caves like I’m made of stone.

After a couple more hits, my lungs start to complain again. Every hit I make, it feels like something is making sure I feel double of it. It doesn’t stop me, however. Not until my brother decides to throw the boxing bag on the ground and force me to take my gloves off. I would complain but my body feels like agreeing for once.

“You don’t know when to stop.”

“I do know, Regi. Right now is when to stop.” I carefully sit down while spitting out my mouth guard. I need a new one.

“You wouldn’t have stopped if it wasn’t for me. For God’s sake Alexei.”

I groan. “God has nothing to do with this brother. And you give yourself too much credit.”

The hall is empty. It feels cold, reminding me of all the hours we spent here after most of the regulars leave. This is the only time I’m able to focus, especially the day before a game. I close my eyes, breathing in. Besides the obvious chalk and sweat, something else floats in the air.

Cigarettes, perhaps. They aren’t allowed here.

Blood, maybe. Not unlikely for a boxing club.

I fail to put my finger on it, but my brother quickly distracts me by pushing me to my locker. He babbles on about proper protection and something about a lack of sleep.

“Take care of yourself, I mean it.” I nod at him and close my eyes until the slamming of a door rips my concentration apart.

I breath out once.

Then two more times, scratching the top of my thighs and pretending it doesn’t hurt me.

The changing room makes a high-pitched tuning.

It bothers me tremendously, and after shutting my eyes and recalling the words of my brother, I fight the urge to react to my feelings. To act upon the unfiltered rage that is still inside of my body. It’s trapped there, and for some reason it feels like I swallowed the key but can’t connect the dots. The fog in my head becomes more present every single day. It makes me miss hits and absorb punches like I’m a sponge, and they are the water.

It's not fair.

It hasn’t been fair for a long time.

A sound erupts from somewhere behind me. I don’t hesitate to follow it, for I know these halls and I’ve heard that sound before.

I make my way through the showers, all the way to the other locker room and eventually use the back door to get out on the street.

I still hear the sound.

It’s joyous laughter, made up of echoing giggles and a painful memory that forces me to halt my tracks. For a moment, I allow myself to remember the image of my little girl, even more beautiful than all the daisies her mother and I used to pluck for her. Mentally, I’m stuck in our blooming back yard, trying my best to ignore the tickling from the tall grass.

I’m not in that back yard.

The laughter continues, however, and I’m just stuck on the sidewalk dressed in nothing but my towel and the overwhelming grief I suddenly feel.

“Mia,” I whisper, the name of my late daughter just rolls off my tongue. It had been ages since I last addressed her, but only minutes since I last thought of her.

I miss her, I try to say it but there’s just no time.

Someone asks me if I’m doing alright, they even call me sir. I’m no sir.

I’ll tell them that but they’re helping me sit down and it’s just all so overwhelming that the only thing I can do is cry.

So, I cry and call for my daughter. My beautiful Mia.

I’m in my boxing club again, sitting beside one of my regular customers. He’s a piece of shit, and I respect him for that. I’m sure he feels the same way about me.

It’s around noon, so the place is crowded with frustrated desk jobbers and managers that need to hit stuff in order to make it through the rest of their day.

Can’t say I blame them.

Their presence is jamming, nearly suffocating me with their sweat and overachievement. I catch some of them staring at me and my companion, but they know better than to start conversations with me.

I’m talking about my important game today. From what I’ve heard a lot of people will come to watch it. I can’t think of anyone interested enough to come all the way to my place and watch me get beaten up. Or beat someone up.

It couldn’t really be that entertaining. I always have the same opponent, and I complain about it a lot, but nobody really seems to care.

When the whistle blows and my game is finally over, I’m immediately approached by an elderly woman. She takes my cheeks in her hands and kisses my forehead. She touches the exact spot where I was hit multiple times, and for some reason it doesn’t hurt as badly as I expected. I still take her hands in mine, and stare into her deep blue eyes.

I recognize them.

I’ve swum in them, drowned in them. I’ve loved these eyes, and I tell her that I do.

“Your eyes,” I squeeze the woman’s hands, “they look like my daughter’s.”

The woman’s precious eyes immediately tear up, and I feel her tired body sobbing. I don’t understand why she would react this way, but I cry with her because the thought of Mia is a crushing one, and I can’t handle the pressure anymore.

“Don’t cry,” I pat her head because I have this indescribable feeling that that is what she needs, “I mean it as a compliment.”

“I know you do, Alexei.”

She knows my name. I don’t know hers.

Do I?

Now that I think about it, she does look a lot like Mia, but I couldn’t be sure because Mia never lived to be her age. I smile at her, and I remind her that she looks just like my daughter.

“I know I do, dear.” The woman takes my hands as I need to sit down for a while.

I’m not in my boxing club.

At this point, I’m not sure I’ve ever been in my boxing club. Not for a long time. I closed it right after my beautiful wife got pregnant with Mia.

My wife. My beautiful wife?

I reach for the woman’s cheek, gently stroking her wrinkles away.

“Alexei? Do you remember?” The woman in front of me is still crying. She looks even older now, maybe even my age. I couldn’t be sure, there is so much fog in this hospital room that I somehow ended up in. It occurs to me how the smell of chalk seemed to fade, like the mist actively forced it out of the room.

I shake my head at her, but I remind her again that she’s as beautiful as Mia, and as beautiful as the daisies I used to grow in my garden. The garden me and my wife planted for our daughter.

I can’t seem to make her stop crying, so I hug her tightly and close my eyes.

I open my eyes.

I’m suited up, a bouquet of daisies in my hand.

I see a young woman running towards me. She lifts her dress as she runs through the grass all the way to me. The air smells like something fresh, like the one thing I couldn’t name before. I still can’t, but I’m sure it’s no chalk. There is no chalk, and no fog.

The woman’s chuckles remind me of the memory I’m in, only this time, the memory allows me to finally touch her. To hug her with every piece of my love that I haven’t been able to give her since she passed.

My beautiful Mia.

We stay like this for a while, hugging.

Actually, I think by myself, I think I’m going to stay like this forever.