12 Rounds (2 page)

The silence breaks when I hear another set of footsteps fall in line with my own. I spin around, walking backwards, “Hello!” The words come out jittery because I’m already nervous. Now fear can be added to that equation. “Is someone out there?”

No answer.

Then my back hits a wall.

No…

It’s not a wall.

I’ve bumped into someone or something.

And whatever it is, is threatening.

I can feel the terror inside of me spike as a hard body presses into my back, warm breath trails down the back of my neck, and raspy breathing pounds against my ear drums.

I’ve heard of some people getting a sudden rush of adrenaline when they’re seconds away from dying. It’s like a last will of action, pumping through you, a part of you that’s logical and tells you that you’re not ready to die.

I wait for mine.

I bank on it.

Pray for it.

Please, please, please God give me strength.

Seconds pass.

Then minutes.

There’s a cold brush of metal against my neck, a tight fist in my hair. I wiggle beneath the man behind me’s forceful grasp, and scream as the knife at the back of my neck bites into my flesh.

A deep, gritty voice throbs in my ears and drowns out the screams leaving my throat. “Keep still you little bitch.”

I’ve always been a crappy listener. That, and I feel like giving up is admitting that you’re weak. This is where my rush of adrenaline decides to come out.

I have never been a weak person.

And I don’t intend on becoming one now.

I kick behind me and dig my heel into my attackers shin. He grunts. Screams
Fuck.
Drops the knife. Then takes in a deep breath. He also releases his grip on my hair and that gives me the opportunity I need to run. So I do.

I run and shriek at the top of my lungs. My high-pitched voice pierces the night sky and dances off the clouds before echoing, trailing down the abandoned streets.

Vacant cars are parked against the long stretch of sidewalk and I frantically start banging on some of the windows, hoping I might catch a couple making out or something.

But I have no such luck.

I’m alone.

Inside and outside.

My attacker’s raspy grunts are mixed in with my sceams along with his thundering footsteps. I hang a left into a nearby alley, focused on a chain linked fence toward the back.

If I can climb that fence I can get away.

I can save myself.

When I felt my attacker’s body press into mine from behind earlier, I could tell that he is at least fifty pounds overweight. That should give me a bit of an advantage. I think.

I speed ahead, panting and coughing. My lungs have given out and my throat feels like sandpaper. The will and determination inside of me is the only thing keeping me going. A smile pulls on my lips when I’m feet away from the fence. A burst of exhilaration and happiness plumments through as my fingers stretch toward the metal links. I can almost feel the chilled breath of its coolness against my fingertips.

Almost.

What I don’t anticipate is a separation in the concrete. A divot wide enough for the tip of my right tennis shoe to get stuck in. I trip and fall. My chin digs into the pavement and I let out a muffled scream as my teeth clamp down on my tongue.

A sadistic laugh comes from somewhere above me. And when I lift my head I can see my attackers’ massive shadow covering me, engulfing me like flames smothering a bundle of logs in a fireplace. “No,” I whimper. “No.”

 Suddenly, I’m yanked up by the collar of my white button up shirt. I scream as loud as I can, praying that by some miracle someone might hear me. Then my attacker’s thick calloused hands clasp around my throat and starts squeezing. “Just shut up,” he breathes into my ear in a gravelly voice. “You’re going to enjoy this.”

I force out one last scream as he cuts off my air supply and then I hear a third voice ring out into the air, “Hey!” a  man screams. “Back the fuck off!”

I don’t get to feel any relief at the sound of someone coming to my rescue, because the second the third party enters, my attacker takes my head and slams it into the brick wall his hips have me pinned against.

Chapter Two

~Sean~

May 2012

I am from the city of rock.

A city built up from the gray chimney stacks of steel mills, Chevy and Ford factories, and middle class America. A city where blood, sweat, and tears are poured into a funnel the size of Mars to keep the economy going. Where laboring, hardworking men are a dime a dozen. A place where the streets can become your best friend…

Or your worst enemy.

 And at night, the streets don’t welcome you.

They destroy you.

I live in the armpit of the U.S.—Ohio. Cleveland, Ohio to be exact. Been here since I was seven. I like Ohio. Even though I was born on The Emerald Isle, I’ll always consider Ohio to be my home. I’m not sure why. Maybe because I’ve been here longer. Or because for some reason, Ohio has a home-like feel to it. I still boast a faint Irish accent and that’s the only souvenier that I’ve taken with me from my homeland.

Cleveland Rocks!

Cleveland Rocks!

Okay, okay.

I get it. Enough with the bullshit.

Moonlight drips down from the star-filled sky and coats the street with a soft light. The light of the moon combined with the street lamp makes the darkened road seem brighter. Gun shots ring out in the distance and the sound is welcoming, familiar. It's almost like music for someone like me. Someone who spends most of their nights on street corners in the bad part of town.

I know what most people think of guys like me.

They think that I’m a scumbag.

A bottom feeder.

They think I’m the lowest form of a man.

A good for nothing ex-drug runner mixed up in a ring of corruption, blow, (yes the white powder) , and illegal activity.

What I’d really like to tell them is to fuck off. Well, that and that I’m  none of the things they think I am. Fuckin’ hypocrites. All they want to do is judge.

I’ll tell you what I’d ask them if I had the chance. I’d ask them what they wouldn’t do for the people they cared about. I’d ask them if they wouldn’t get down on their knees to grovel before Lucifer himself if it meant you could save who you loved most in the world. I don’t know why I think about asking because I know exactly what they’d say…

Anything.

They’d do
anything.

I like to think most people would.

I’m no different. With both parents gone, I did what I had to do for my sister and myself, and I hate it when pretentious assholes judge me for that. I used to see it all the time. I’d walk in to a restaurant or a store, and people would take one look at my tatted up arms, facial piercing, and cold distant eyes and assume I was a punk. Their eyes would sweep over me, disgusted scowls on their lips, then they’d turn their heads.

That’s right
, I’d think.
Turn your fucking heads before I knock your damn teeth out.

I know.

I have anger issues.

I’m working on it.

Truth is, I’m just a guy who fights for what matters most to him and what matters most to me—is family.

Or what’s left of mine anyway.

When I was about seventeen, Connor Doyle, my boss took me under his wing. He showed me the ropes of hustling drugs and making a profit. He told me, “Son,” then swept his arm out in front of him, “Some day you'll be running these streets.”

At the time, I'd gazed out at the abandoned buildings, empty streets, and junkies living in cardboard boxes in a nearby alley, and thought to myself;
Who the hell would want this?

Seven years have gone by and I still think that.

I don’t run the blow anymore, but I am the one who picks up the cash from a new runner. I’m sitting in an old, beat up navy Chevy Mini Van, parked underneath one of the flickering street lamps. Complete with a My kid is on the honor roll at Shaker High  bumper sticker.

Yes. I’m a God damned genius.

The five-o never suspect a mom with an honor roll student.

This drop is taking longer than I expected it to. I’ve been parked on this street corner for thirty minutes waiting.

Watching.

Waiting.

Impatiently tapping my fingers on the dashboard.

I watch the cars that slowly drift by, their puttering mufflers spitting out clouds of gray smog. Watching the hookers stroll across the corner a half a block down, hoping that the car that just pulled up next to them isn’t an undercover. And last but not least, hoping that this transaction with Murph, the drug runner Connie has working this part of town, comes up with correct amount of cash, and I don’t have to explain to Connie where his missing money is. Also, so I don’t have to punish Murph for the missing money.

And by punish I mean put a bullet in his fat head.

Trust me, that’s not something I want to do. I like to think most people would rather not shoot another human being, let alone their best friend.

But sadly, when you pledge your loyalty to the brotherhood, your ability to make choices like that fly out your car window as you coast down I-80.

Murphy O’ Fallon is a huge mother fucker. At six feet six inches and three hundred pounds, he stands out in a crowd and moves pretty damn slow too. We’ve been best friends since the second grade when I first moved here from Ireland. A couple boys in my class thought it would be funny to pick on the new kid. Until Murph came along, grabbed two of them by the collar, and asked me if I was all right. Even as an eight year old Murph towered over the other second graders and nearly doubled them in girth.

Hell, I was terrified of him at first.

He’d sit in the back of  Miss Pierson’s second grade class and crack his knuckles, way too big for his desk, looking like he stuffed himself into the seat and it was going to break beneath his weight at any second. I automatically assumed he was the one who’d be picking on the smaller kids.

But I couldn’t have been more wrong about Murph.

He’s tough when he has to be, but other than that most people would call him a gentle giant. And after the moment he came to my rescue in the second grade, well, we’ve been best friends ever since.

The sound of jingling change cuts into my thoughts and I avert my attention across the street. Murph waddles toward me, the dim light from the street lamp flickering off his round, bald head and he’s yanking on his over-sized jeans, trying to secure them around his hips. He’s got a brown paper bag shoved in his right pocket and something gleaming and silver fills my gaze. God damn it.

Murph props himself up against my window and I can’t seem to stop looking at the shining aluminum foil wrapped around the half-eaten burrito in his right hand. “A burrito, Murph. Really, a fucking burrito, now? You do know that Connie hates when his money is delivered late, right? You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago.”

He takes a huge bite of the burrito and a dollap of sour cream gets stuck in the corner of his mouth. He flicks his tounge out, licks his lips and the says, “I was hungry man.”

I groan and shake my head. “You’re always fucking hungry.” Murph shrugs nonchalantly because he knows it’s the truth. Then he glances around warily before sliding the brown bag through the window. I eye him cautiously. “Did you count it?”

He takes another bite of his burrito. “No, man.”

“Jesus Christ,” I huff and spill the contents from the paper bag into my lap. “For future reference, my friend, always count the money.” I gather up the bills and sift through the cash, counting hundred after hundred. You never  know when a junkie is going to try and stiff you. And I know Connie better than Murph does. I’ve seen the man put a bullet into someone’s skull over a missing fifty. The man is very particular about his money.

 Murph is new at this. Which is why he’s running drugs. That’s how all the members of the brotherhood start out. You start as a runner and work your way up with experience and age. I used to do what Murph does. Until he came along and replaced me.

 I could have killed him when he went to Connie and told him he wanted into the brotherhood. “You don’t know what you’re fucking asking,” I shouted at him. “You don’t want this kind of life!”

“I do!” He shouted back and gave me a shove. “What else is out there for me? Huh, Sean? I’m not college material and you’ve got to be fucking high if you think I’m working a lame ass nine to five just so I can live paycheck to paycheck!”

I lowered my voice and shook my head, then stared at him deadpan. “Murph, you don’t know what you’re fucking asking.”

He insisted he did and I dropped the subject after that.

I wish I could have told him if I had a chance to take it all back I would. I would have found another way to keep me and my kid sister together without taking Connie up on his offer. After all, my Ma, God rest her soul, never wanted this life for me. She’d always say,
“You’re so bright, Seany. I can’t wait to see what you make of your life.”

I’m a shitty son.

And I’ve let Ma down.

I’m sorry, Ma.

So, so Sorry.

Sometimes I wonder what she’d think of me now. And if she’d hate what I’ve become. I wonder what she’d say if she ever saw my mug-shot that hangs on the wall at the brotherhood’s meeting spot. To them, mug-shots are like trophies in glass cases. If you’ve earned one, you should be proud.

You’re a criminal.

A God damned felon.

How many arrests?

Two?

Wow.

Cue the applause.

Congratulations.

Here’s a bundt cake and a certificate, accompanied by a pat on the fucking back.

There were plenty of times where I would have liked to voice my opinion. The first time I was released from prison to Connie’s smiling face and outstretched arms, I wanted to ask him what the hell he was so happy about, but I didn’t. I swallowed the question, guzzled it down like a frothy Guinness and let it sit in my stomach to intoxicate me.