Fighting in the Dark

It's been a while, I know. But f you like this one, be sure to check out Author's note 2 for the inspiration for it.

Camden, New Jersey, Mateo's apartment.

Another day went by. Another day wasted. Another day gone forever. And another. And another. And another. Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months. Four months to be exact.

Mateo sifted through the same stack of letters he'd sifted through before. Mostly official notices from his father's lawyer, recaps of their meetings. Some heartfelt letters from relatives and acquaintances who didn't have his number or email. One bill from the hospital he'd already paid online months ago. Another bill for the gym.

He didn't really care to keep any of it but others told him they were important. Both for documentation and for moving on from his grief. What if I don't feel anything? Can't move on from something you don't have.

Four months ago history repeated itself. Four months since Mateo's life lost meaning. Four months since his father's death.

Four months ago his father died outside of a corner store on his block. One he'd been going to since before Mateo was born. Everyone knew him there. And everyone liked him. But he died all the same. Same place as Mateo's mother sixteen years ago. Same way.

Some punk kids had beef with some other punks and did a drive by. His father happened to be there at the time. He was the only casualty.

Of course he was. Mateo took another swig of his bottle of whiskey and felt minor annoyance at it being empty. Of course it is. Being his last one, he'd need to go get more from the liquor store.

He grunted as he got up from the couch, further annoyed at such a simple act now took some level of struggle. He'd really let himself go. No need to train when your coach is dead.

As the couch shifted from the lost weight, the other side of it spoke up. "You alright?" Cecelia asked her question with a hint of hope. A hope he'd heard die a little more every day. A hope he was killing.

None of it was her fault. She hadn't shot his father. She hadn't shot his mother. Instead, she supported him through everything he'd been going through. She'd been a great help managing all the things his dad left him and an even greater emotional rock. Or she would have been if he had any emotions left besides general contempt. Not her fault.

Mateo loved her. He really did. Or at least he used to. He was planning on proposing to her before the "accident" or so others liked to call it. She was everything to him. But he let her down. Was still, letting her down. Now he just counted down the days. Waiting for the one where that hope finally breathes its last and she leaves him. She'd be right to do it too. She deserved everything, and he had nothing to give. Not anymore.

He couldn't even look at her. Because looking at her reminded him of her and what she once meant to him. He didn't turn his head as he grabbed his coat.

"Booze." The fifth word he'd said to her in the past 3 days. And out the door he went.

As it closed he heard her say she'd be gone when he got back. Probably working the night shift.

Outside apartment

As Mateo exited the front door and was assailed by the night air, he figured he should have said more to her. Honestly, he should do a lot more than just talk to her. But in her own words, that thought in of itself was the problem.

A week ago, their bedroom

Mateo had wondered why Cecelia took the day off from work. Now he knew why.

All day she'd been in and out of the apartment preparing something. Since he pretty much never left the couch these days he watched her come and go, noticing that she tried to avoid his gaze as much as she could.

Later that night, she struck. She called him into the bedroom under the guise of needing his strength to move something or other. Once he lumbered past the threshold she closed the door and jumped him.

And that's how he ended up in the bed, his girlfriend on all fours above him. For just a moment, he felt something.

He finally saw why she avoided his line of sight. She had gotten her hair done in one of the first styles he'd ever complimented on her. She usually didn't wear makeup, but she'd put just enough on to highlight her features. In terms of clothes, she wore none, or very little depending on your definition. She wore new lingerie. A black laced bra with an intricate pattern and a matching thong. She was adorned with a garter belt, something that he'd asked her more than a few times to put on. She didn't see the point. It was an outdated clothing item. But to him, it was a huge turn on, especially when it dug into the wearer's legs like it did for hers.

She was beautiful, hot, sexy, elegant, and astonishing all at once. But the real kicker was the look on her face. She held the confidence that made him fall for her in the first place. Confidence in herself and a hunger for him with an impression that she always gets what she wants. And what she wanted was him. It made Mateo remember, for an instant, that she was the light of his life. But now, all he felt was darkness. No matter how bright she shone.

Cecelia was all over him, showering his face and neck with kisses, her upper body flush against his. She felt warm. Comfortably so. She needs this.

Mateo noticed one of her hands snaking down his body between them. He didn't want her to be disappointed yet. At least, not until she'd finished.

In the most physical thing he'd done in a while, he flipped the two of them, leaving her looking up at him with "pleasant surprise" written on her face.

Now it was his turn to cheer her up. His mind and body sifted through all the times they'd been together to find the greatest hits. He kissed in the spot under her chin she loved. He nipped at her ear and heard her moan his name. One of his hands gripped her breast with just enough force to drive her crazy.

He could tell she was turning on the theatrics a bit, probably for his sake, but he knew her body well enough to also tell most of her reactions were real. One of his hands trailed down towards her crotch, but before it could reach its destination, she pushed him off of her.

"What's wro-"

She interrupted him. A frustration in her voice gave way to sadness. "Just stop, Mateo. There's no point if you don't want to."

"I do want-"

"Don't lie to me." A plea as much as it was a command. Mateo felt an unspoken 'don't add that onto all of this.' She collected herself and sighed. "I can tell you don't mean it. It's like you're just... going through the motions." A bitterness crept into her voice that she quickly stifled.

"Did you not like what I was doing?"

She exploded. "Of course I liked it! You know I liked it! But that isn't the problem here. I don't want you to fuck me because you think you know you should. I want you to fuck me because you want to." Her anger turned to something that resembled pleading. I'm a piece of shit.

Mateo deflated further than he even knew he could. This just further confirmed what he already knew. It was bad enough that he had to put up with himself, but now he was hurting the love of his life.

Cecelia, God bless her soul, only further proved that he didn't deserve her. Seeing his depression worsen, she instantly became caring and understanding again.

"I'm sorry for yelling. It's just..." She just signed and left the room, off to remove her make up and simmer down. She didn't have the words to tell him everything that was wrong. She didn't need them, he already knew.

At some point he fell asleep and when he woke she had left for work. But not without leaving him a loving apology note and some breakfast in the fridge.

Outside the liquor store

The pity was one of the worst parts. Everyone in the area knew Mateo. He'd grown up there. And if they hadn't before, they sure knew him now, after his father's death hit the news.

He exited the store with a bad taste in his mouth. He'd been drinking a lot since it happened. And like many times before, the owner tried to just give him the alcohol, no matter how many times Mateo protested. His father taught him to pay what was owed, no matter what. And besides, he didn't deserve handouts.

Mateo didn't even argue with the owner anymore. He'd memorized the exact payment plus tax and had just begun putting the cash on the counter as he walked out without a word. Some part of him figured that the owner had just begun giving the money back to Cecelia whenever he saw her but that wasn't Mateo's problem. As long as he paid, there wouldn't be another straw on his broken back.

He walked down the street towards his apartment in silence. He no longer listened to music to pass the time. It only reminded him of times when he enjoyed the songs.

If he had been wearing headphones, he would have missed it. Some voices came from an alley as he passed. Probably a drug deal. Then he heard a voice clear enough. It sounded scared.

"Please, I have a son."

His nerves suddenly became electrified. His body moved instinctually. Some part of him vaguely recognized the sound of his forgotten bag of Admiral Nelson and Crown Russe hitting the pavement.

There was only one thought in his mind.

Not again. Not anymore.

Alley

The alley turned out to be longer than he'd expected, complete with a turn somewhere in the middle. But Mateo just kept running and running. He'd run as long and far as he'd need to.

When he did arrive, he was out of breath. This was the most he'd worked out since his father's passing. A short while ago and a run this short would have been nothing. A word appeared at the edge of his consciousness. Frustratingly just out of reach. Shameful? Whatever. Now wasn't the time for that.

The four people he encountered turned as he ran up. He saw three younger men, complete with pulled up hoodies and an aggressive demeanor. The other looked to be a man in his late forties, maybe early fifties. Like his father.

Barely holding back the wheezing and ignoring his aches, Mateo looked to the three hoodlums. "Leave him alone." The hurt in his body brought that word back to the tip of his tongue. Careless?

The three of them fully faced him, taking aggressive stances. Without a second thought Mateo put his hands up in his own stance. One he hadn't made in a long time. Something about it felt off. The word teased him once more. Clumsy?

Several things came to him at once as he felt himself hit from behind. One was the realization that he'd missed a fourth punk. The second was the word.

Sloppy.

Mateo stumbled forward from the hit. He felt as if something had been knocked loose in his head but for the moment there were bigger issues in front of him. Three to be exact.

They were on him within the second. Punches came at him from all sides. The punches landed, but the feeling was numbing. His focus was inward, as that first hit and the word remembered unlocked something he'd thought he'd lost forever. Emotion.

He pushed one of them away and created some space for himself, now having the four of them in front. He swung at one of them but only hit air as several punches hit him in retaliation. There was that word again.

Sloppy.

Enraged, he swung again, this time clipping one of them, but not a clean hit. He received a shot to his ribs as payment. Though the pain from that was nothing compared to the pain of the word.

Every punch he took, every missed swing, every uneven step, and every not clean hit. Every single time the word repeated itself in his head. And with every repetition, his anger grew. Until it couldn't be contained anymore.

"I know!" Mateo yelled out not at them, but to the void. To his father.

The outburst gave pause to his attackers, the non sequitur confusing them. That second was all he needed. He widened his stance, bent his knees, squared his shoulders. His body, though heavier and slower than before, remembered the stance and acted accordingly. His hand snapped forward. The word changed, and so did the feeling it brought.

Good.

One of the thugs dropped like a bag of bricks, the punch perfectly hitting his button. He pivoted on and faced the other three with a proper guard this time. He vaguely noticed tears streaming down his face. The anger lessened slightly, giving way to a cruel pleasure. He took a step towards the other three, the anger of losing both of his parents mixing with the pleasant familiarity of fighting. One of them stepped forward and he led with a jab into the satisfying snap of a right cross.

Another word sprang to his mind.

Again.

He knew his father had raised him better than this. He knew Arturo would disapprove of getting into this fight, or any fight outside the ring, but he felt it deep inside. He had to. They had to pay for what they were going to do. For what they did.

This was the therapy he needed.

Vengeance was wrong but his muscles tensed at the subject. His hand made a fist and he vented and bludgeoned. He worked efficiently. No wasted movements. Between dodging and ducking he countered and threw punches of his own. Though they took the hits, he wasn't really swinging at them. He swung for his mother, he swung for his father and those who would touch them. He swung so this dad made it home for his supper.

Minutes later, Mateo's eyes focused and he felt someone pulling him back. He found himself on his knees, straddling one of the assailants, their face barely recognizable and with dull pain in his hands.

The one pulling him back was the man they'd been robbing, who in the darkness, Mateo mistook for his father. For just a second.

Mateo hopped up and grabbed the man's shoulders, checking him for damage.

"You okay?"

"Forget about me, you need to get to a hospital!"

Mateo felt fine, well as fine as one could after fighting four on one, but a few bruises and aches never bothered him. Though his side did hurt a bit more now that the adrenaline was starting to recede. He hoped they hadn't cracked a rib.

He placed a hand there to check and it came away wet. Very wet. He looked down and his entire right leg was soaked in a dark liquid.

It was then that his condition, and lack of conditioning, caught up to him, and he collapsed against the man.

16 years ago, Arturo's Gym

No longer was Mateo in the dirty alley. Suddenly he was back in time, in his father's gym being dragged by the arm into the boxing ring in the middle. He'd been suspended from school for his third fight in two days.

It was just past noon so the gym was full of people and coaches alike, all watching him with confusion as his dad wordlessly pushed him into the ring.

Not that Mateo cared about what they thought. Or what anyone thought. Nothing mattered anyway. He was only there because the school decided to snitch to his dad.

Mateo, and the rest of the gym, watched silently as Arturo walked into his office and emerged with a set of gloves and pads. On his way back, Michael, the next senior coach of the gym and basically an uncle to Mateo, stopped him and they shared some words.

It was a short, heated 'discussion' which ended in Arturo blowing off his old friend and climbing into the ring. He tossed the gloves, which Mateo recognized as Arturo's from when he used to compete, at Mateo and started strapping pads to his hands.

He didn't look up from his pads as he said, "Póntelos." He did look up when Mateo made no move to follow the order. "Ahora." He defaulted to Spanish when agitated.

With a sigh Mateo put on and laced up the gloves. When he finished, his father stood in front of him.

"Hit me."

"What?" Mateo's expression briefly shifted to confusion from the perpetual agitation it had been set in.

"Hit me." Arturo repeated himself. "You want to fight so badly, pick on someone your own size."

Mateo looked down at his father. The man had once been a boxer, but years as a coach and age had left him not as spry as he once was. He was a tad wiry, still toned but with not as much bulk. And even without the age and build differences, Mateo stood a full head taller than the man with the salt and pepper mustache.

"No-" As soon as the word left his mouth his father's padded hand flicked forward, snapping against his jaw.

The pain was momentary, the shock instant. But both soon gave way to rage as a mild taste of iron filled his mouth. If his father wanted a fight, he'd get one.

Mateo threw a haymaker. A wide punch that was easily swatted away and Arturo gave him another light jab.

"Sloppy!"

Mateo swung again. Arturo ducked it and gave him a not-that-light body shot to the ribs.

"Sloppy!"

The next swing was wider than the first. Arturo slipped passed Mateo and slapped him on the back of the head, the small push and momentum of the punch causing him to stumble forward.

This song and dance continued for a minute or so, all the while Artuo lecturing as if his son wasn't attacking him.

"You angry?" Another jab to Mateo's face. "You think getting thrown out of school is gonna make her come back!?" He leaned back as Mateo's fist swung by. "You can be angry all you want, ain't gonna change a damn thing! But since you want to be angry, focus it." Another counter. "Don't be angry at the world. If you wanna be angry, be angry at me! You want to fight? Fight me! Because let me tell you something." He danced just out of reach using his footwork. "No one cares. The world doesn't care. Your school doesn't care. Those punks who did it don't care. But that doesn't matter, does it? Cause you don't care either, right!? You don't care if you get expelled. You don't care if the next time you get into a fight, one of the punks pulls a gun and kills you, right? You don't care if you die."

Mateo was getting tired, but the rage of being lectured at while being embarrassed in front of the entire gym. He'd been zoning out most of what his father had been saying, focusing on moving his heavy limbs. Besides, it wasn't like anything he said was wrong. But the next line sent a jolt of electricity throughout his body.

"You don't care about me."

Mateo's body moved on its own, like a well oiled machine. Some minor childhood lessons came to the forefront. He pivoted on one foot, spinning until his father was directly in front of him. He squared his shoulders and raised a guard. He twisted his hips and his hand snapped forward.

A loud smack rang throughout the gym. Being too fast to dodge, Arturo had caught the punch with the pad.

Mateo had only a second to bask in the feeling before another jab from his father. Somehow, he slipped it. Just barely.

"Good. Again." Mateo threw another punch and was met with a similar satisfying smack. He tried to dodge the incoming counter but Arturo switched the tempo and caught him.

"Sloppy. Again!" Another smack, another dodge. "Good! Again!"

Something inside of Mateo had snapped. As if a dam gave way. He was no longer angry. Well, that wasn't exactly true. He was still angry. But he felt other emotions. He felt every emotion. Everything he'd been keeping bottled up since he watched that casket lowered into the grave. He'd been trapped inside his hate and his father released him.

The two of them went on for several more reps until Mateo couldn't lift his arms anymore. It was then he'd noticed the tears streaming from his face. And the similar ones running down his father's.

Arturo stepped forward and wrapped his arms around his son.

"You think you're the only one hurting?" The question threw Mateo off, but his father continued. "You think I don't miss her too? I also want to give up. To just stop. But I can't do that, mijo. I have you."