Goddamn I love Little Mac

Almost as much as I love the song Serpents

Got blood on my face, a black eye that's almost swollen shut, a torn up lip I bit too hard into, a slash through a cheek, bruises on my chest, cuts on my arms, scabs on my knees. It was a pretty good beatdown, although it never really got any easier from the first time I stepped into the ring. You'd think it would, but people surprise you.

You're on a stool behind me, bandaging me up like an army wife tending to her soldier. Being this close to the fight has never really been a problem for you. That's the appeal you had when I first met you. You held your own, standing as tall as 5'8'' would allow you (over a half-foot taller than me, at least) and staring down any poor, unfortunate soul who dared to cross you. Guess the idea of falling for a warrior was more my thing than the princesses. In New York, they don't have princesses. You'd find a unicorn before you found a princess there. Fine with me, I always wanted someone who would keep time with me. Foolish me, not knowing what I was getting into.

It's kind of cute to see you take care of me. You were always good at that. Every scar I've been dealt, you know intimately, so it's only fitting that you conceal them. A bandage here, a wet rag there, enough ice to freeze the East Coast over, trying to make a broken man good as new. The strange thing is I don't think I'd have anyone else try and fix me up.

No one knows how to fix a person better than the one who broke him.

I listen to you hum a Sharon Van Etten song, like this is just a nice hobby, or a strangely meditative chore. It's charming in a twisted way, and it still makes me drunk with affection for every little bit you've made me despise you. You're a black widow- yeah, yeah, I know you've heard that one before, but it's true. You're gorgeous, powerful, alluring, deadly, extremely romanticized, and still have me trapped in your web, playing with me, stealing a little blood, untangling me just to catch me again.

In a sick sort of way, it's fun.

You've almost got me completely bandaged up as you give me another icepack to hold to my eye. It's hard to really begrudge the fights since they used to be what I lived for, how I made my living, how I got my brief stint into celebrity. Your hair drapes over my skin, reminding me of fonder moments in the past, and possibly in the future. You know what they say about deadly cycles. Probably more than I do; I was never a reader, a visionary, or all that memorable. I used to hate myself. In fact, I'm still not a big fan of myself, but at least I've stopped fighting. At least I've never hit back.

You finish up, lean over my shoulder, and kiss me on the cheek, your wayward blonde hair a curtain falling on our shitshow, blinding me to the reality I know all too well. "You should be more careful next time," you say, sickeningly sweet. Sometimes I wonder just what the fuck happened to you to make you this way, but you were never one for personal details. Not like me, who took the first girl who could stand him for more than a week and vomited out his entire life story, handing over every little weakness he ever had for the sake of one fleeting kiss.

I know what you mean by being more careful. Don't piss you off again.

You pull away, mystery woman, leaving me as mutely confused as ever. You walk to the sink, taking the bloodied rags and rinsing them out. I sit here near the fridge, which at this rate is just another cage. You throw them in the trash can between me and the cabinets, the weight of the water thunking against the frame so hard that it feels like another punch. The process is all too familiar, but this time things are a little different, to the point where I'm surprised it wasn't set off by your ace shot.

You thought you were the only one who liked to mix it up every now and again. You thought I was a coward, hiding behind what few morals I had left, disappearing into a beer bottle to mute the current of emotions that make me fucking hate you and all that you represent, saying things that are so relieving to scream at you that it makes all of the violence worth it. I used to be sympathetic for you, and whatever the hell you were going through, until I realized I would never find out. Can't really be sympathetic when you won't let me be.

If there's one thing I learned from boxing, it's that every fighter has their weakness. Mine is that I pack my gloves away as soon as I leave the ring. Yours is that you never left me any more than fleeting reasons to avoid taking this path. The kisses only last for so long, and the alcohol is only a temporary elixir.

I don't even have to look up to notice you pass me, walking to the fridge. I hear bottles clash against each other, the only thing that's constant in a poor man's refrigerator. At your waist, hooked to your torn up black jeans, is a pocket knife. Only deep enough to wound, unless you truly want to go for the kill, which you've never been merciful enough to do. I wonder if you think you're doing me a favor. Seeing it reminds me of the weird object I bought during the one time I left the apartment this weekend. I don't keep it as close to me, but it's in the kitchen, because that's been the focal point of our house.

"I feel I will never truly understand you, darling," I tell you all too happily. All I have are a pair of dog tags. A small chink in an armor of ruthlessness. I try and imagine what sort of violence you grew up with, to see if I can commit to this. I try and figure out how PTSD actually looks on a person rather than the horror stories other people at my long-abandoned AA meetings tell me. If I knew, maybe I'd just relent. At worst, I'd call the cops, see if they could comprehend a former boxing champion lose his dignity, belt, and safety at the same time because of one violent, abusive woman. Pretty sure that's something as rare as unicorns and princesses down here in hell.

"I'd like to think I'm pretty easy to understand," you respond, with the words unsaid louder than the ones you have said. You hand me a bottle already popped open. I was never the suicidal type, but the idea of a last meal was always romantic to me, even if it's just something once pure as fermented and toxic as my life.

You pull your chair up next to me, taking a drink. The untouched skin on your leg is a soft blanket against the tainted patchwork of my own flesh and blood. Against my waist, the burden of your knife accosts me, reminding me to behave. But you've already romanticized the idea of a violent rebel too far for me to consider it anything other than a glorious way to go out.

You've got a knife, but I've got a gun.

I reach into the trash can and pull it out, holding it to your head. I still don't know if I'm shooting or not. I just want to see the look on your face when you realize you've been had for once. Without even looking over, you know what I have, and you crack a grin, chuckling in a nervous sort of way.

"You like that?" I ask, toneless.

"What can I say?" you reply. "I never really came home."

"I think we're both going home," I reply, my hand shaking but not falling.

All you can do is smile. And it is sort of amusing the more you think about it.

"We're kind of perfect for each other," you point out. Can't really disagree about that.