Chapter 1

Written during hard-lockdown in 2020. Whether or not there is more to this; I don't know. Left unedited.

He is old, for a fighter. His body worn. Nevertheless, he rises before the sun. Sleep isn’t a friend, nor an enemy. Take care not to confuse dreaming with sleeping. The room, dark and cold, isn’t occupant of much. The bathroom lights sting, and his eyes take a moment to adjust. Cold water to the face eradicates the last of the sleeper’s fog. Bruised hands run through his hair as the sight of, ever-increasing, grey patches in his beard make him feel even older than moments before. Black coffee is sobering. A shot of whiskey solves that.

The cut beneath his right eye looks all right; all things considered.

“Suppose one can’t expect much more for unpaid work.”

A final sip of the supplemented coffee; allowing a moment for consent before the work commences. Cold air fills his lungs. The sound of his ever quickening footsteps echo through the still dark streets. The previous night still ails him, whilst ever too aware of the throbbing beneath his right eye.

“Had I only a bit of luck. But man has no luck, only himself,” quickening his step even more: “himself and his work.”

Knowing at some point he must atone; this seems as good a time as any. The sun rears its head in the distance allowing a moment.

“Breathe. Soak in the warmth.”

To remain is a fight. Soon it becomes flooded with thoughts and ideas, with no guarantee of such moments in the future. Much has been built on these false foundations, but guarantees and promises do not a man make.

“The sun rises regardless of what occurs the day before. As long as you rise, I will run.”

The longer the run, the less his knees begin to strain. The headache becomes more tolerable. Barely. It’s not as easy as it once was. Time, an unyielding bitch, has taken its toll. Each fight has demanded its due. The higher the sun rises, the less fresh the oxygen begins to taste. The work begins to take precedence over the luckless labours of the past.

“To dwell is a weakness which a fighter cannot afford. The only fight that matters is the next.”

The run comes to an end as the world slowly begins to wake. Reluctant to release the mind; he does press ups whilst waiting for the pharmacy to open. The earth, cold and hard, beneath the burning finger joints doesn’t deter but comforts him. It serves merely as a reminder. There is an understanding of its purpose.

Eventually there is a clicking of the lock, and the swinging sign that once read closed now welcomes the world. Knowing what is needed cannot be found here, he enters all the same. The door opens and closes with a tired creak. This has been a pharmacy for as long as most can remember. Most remember it well, and even then the old man seemed old.

“Joseph!” the old man greets cheerfully. He prefers Jo, but has grown tired of correcting the old man.

“Some fight kid.”

The old man. A lover of a good fight, and a strong drink.

"Your chin is forged from iron. To the envy of other fighters. And you move as well as anyone I have ever seen. You will have a strong career yet."

Had he as much belief as the old man, perhaps he’d have been able to do great things. But as is the case, the belief of old men have no tangible value to struggling fighters. The old man means well, but they both know the conversation is long dead. Grabbing the readily prepared package, his departure is imminent.

“You know, in my day I had quite the right hook,” which the old man demonstrates halfheartedly. Tough the old man is short and balding, one can imagine him being fierce and hard as a brick in his day.

“Thanks for pills.” He says offering the old man one last courteous look before leaving.

The old man means well. He would prefer to avoid the conversation all together, and not be in need of the old man’s kindness.

“Someday I’ll repay him.”

To rely on kindness is to shoulder a heavy burden. One not easily discarded. And often the result of continued kindness, we come to account for it.

“I’ll put it on your tab” she says, in an attempt to reserve his pride. Yet, they’re both aware of the situation. She is as generous as her father. Perhaps only a humble bowl of oatmeal, a few humble bowls can strain one’s already weary shoulders.

“I heard you fought well,” she says smiling whilst furthering the load with a refilled cup of coffee. “When will you fight again?”

Obligated to speak. How could he not? She welcomes him, and provides food, asking no more than simple pleasantries as payment. He does not handle pleasantries well. As a matter of fact; he does not handle society well. He speaks because he has no choice. He speaks to conceal the resentment towards her kindness. He speaks because he has become dependent. He speaks, and feels weak for it.

“Tonight.”

He knows she’ll ask about his cut, and will attempt to sway him. She knows he won’t heed her plea. They both know. Instead she’ll choose to ignore it, understanding her attempt at persuasion would be out of place. Not because she is a woman, but because he is a fighter.

“Well then, good luck. I’m sure my father will have good news in the morning.”

“Of course,” he thinks. The old man will be there. Always is. After managing to survive the unavoidable kindness, and finishing the bowl of oatmeal, the retreat home begins.

“The day is for the living, the labourers, and for honest men. It’s no place for a fighter.”

Before long he arrives. More coffee, more whiskey and some bread in between recurring efforts. He is old, but can still work. He can still move, and get up off the ground. He proves this every day. A man of ritual. It has long ceased to yield the physical benefits it once did. In fact; it might be aiding the deterioration. But he is a man of ritual. It doesn’t take a special man. There is nothing complicated about it. But, it’s not easy, and it’s rarely enjoyable. The toll required is more than most choose to tolerate. It slowly wears away at him.

“The mind cannot take the body. It is the body that must take the mind.”

Years of surviving on the bare minimum have transformed him. Enduring that which a lesser men cannot. Not thinking himself, nor is he, extraordinary because of it.

“To fight is to suffer. For the fighter to win, he must be willing to endure what his rival cannot. Had I been a rich man, I might not have learned to suffer.”

The sun, now, disappearing over the horizon casts its long cold shadow over the world. The night brings opportunity as it does the cold.

“The living, the labourers, and the honest men have had their day. Tomorrow you will rise once more, and we shall see if I rise with you. As for now; my work begins.”