fight club ★ h.s.

ch. 3

Harry shot up, alarmed by the bang. Even more, alarmed when he didn't know where he was. It took a moment to gather himself, to remember the night before. The stack of money on the small table beside the bed helped trigger his memory.

It all replayed behind his eyelids as he let his head fell to his, still wrapped, hands. The fight, the last few rounds, then the confused girl with yellow socks that distracted him even after she left with Mr. Montgomery, but after that nothing.

Harry's feet were bare and dirty from the night before when they stepped onto the rug. His head pounded and most of his face felt swollen. All he wanted to do was lay back down and sleep for another handful or hours, but he knew he needed to leave, return to his small apartment in the city. This had happened a handful of times before, mostly at the beginning of it all, that he had woken up in the basement of the Montgomery household. Harry hated it.

He quickly pulled on his worn shoes, not bothering with socks, took out and yanked on a pair of joggers and a thin hoodie from the string bag under the bed and replaced it with the stack of money before continuing to rummage through the bag to find his phone. It was the one thing Harry could say that he really spent money on and he rarely let it leave his sight. Harry hit one of the three contacts he had in his phone, before bringing it up to his ear and tucking it between his head and shoulder.

"Harry, long time no call, you need a taxi?" The New York Bronx accent was thick but held a warmth that allowed Harry to take a breath.

"Hey, Stan. I do. I'm, uh, at the Montgomery place again, would you mind driving?" Stanley was a forty-something-year-old man with a wife and two kids, who took his taxi business very seriously and had found a soft spot for Harry. Harry had grown to value their relationship and the trust they had built. He slept on Stan's couch a few too many times, ate Linda's meals regularly and helped the kids with their math homework from time to time. It was the closest thing Harry had to family in New York.

Harry double checked the room for any misplaced items, before looking up to the eight by fourteen-inch window adjacent to the ceiling.

"Again, Haz? Though I told you, you could work for me instead of doing that," Stan said. His voice became hard and fatherly and Harry almost let out a huff. "I could hear that eye roll, boy. We'll chat in the taxi."

With that, the phone call ended and Harry hoisted himself up onto the bedside table and stood to unlock and open the window above him. He pushed his bag through and then lifted himself. Typically he would have snuck out the front door, but the little bit of light that made it through the window told him it was good late to do so and whatever memory Harry had of the girl from the night before, pushed him out the window instead.

He was grateful for the woods that surrounded the house, he never had to worry about neighbours and the walk down the long driveway to the main road was quiet of all human noise. Only today he worried about being spotted through a window of the Montgomery house, it had never been a thought or worry before, but the night before seemed to have changed a few things for more than just Harry. So he stayed close to the white building and pulled the grey hood over his head before slowly walking out in front of the house, eyeing all of the windows before turning and jogging down the drive and meeting the treeline.

Harry arrived at the main road after a few minutes of walking and took out his phone. The road was two lanes with bright yellow stripes, but worn asphalt crumbling into the trees and it was only just past 8 in the morning, but the sun was warm, especially for fall in New York and the pounding in Harry's head made it feel much later.

It took at least another fifteen minutes before Stan drove up and I licked the doors. In that time, no other cars had passed and the only sound came from the leaves in the wind and the animals around them. Harry was content to stand there, to be as a tree - observing and quiet, but was also grateful for the yellow car to take him home.

It wasn't until Harry got in the taxi and settled in, hood down and slumped, that Stan let out a sigh and glanced at him. The bruises were brighter in the sun and Harry could only imagine how it looked, he knew it felt like hell, but he would never admit that out loud.

"I've still got a taxi with no driver, Harry, " Stan began. "You look like shit, kid and I'm sick of driving forty minutes to pick your ass up when you look like this. I know you need the money, but there are other ways-"

"Stan, I know, but I'm good at what I do. You know that. I don't make you drive out here very often and I'm sorry I couldn't clean up for you, but I can't exactly do that there." Harry unwrapped his hands quickly as he spoke, nearly tearing the skin off his knuckles with harsh yanks.

"You know what in know? That you still live in a tiny apartment with bad neighbours, you don't have or go out with friends, I've never seen you with a girl, you rarely smile or have fun. You say you're good at what you do, but fighting for a living, isn't living and I don't think it's something you're truly proud of." stans words were harsh, but true and Harry let out a deep sigh covering his eyes from the sun. "You don't have to say I'm right or wrong, but at some point, you either pull yourself out or something else will and it won't be pretty. I don't want to see that for you."

After Stan's voice quieted, the ride down US Route 9, was also quite. The radio played soft classic rock and the old cab made noises over bumps and chuckholes, but neither Stan nor Harry spoke again until they pulled off the highway into the Bronx.

"Stan, I appreciate your concern and everything you've done, but just take me back to my place." Harry was the first to speak, recognizing the roads and shops.

"Linda will clean you up, and there's leftovers from last night you can have for lunch or take home for dinner." Stan's voice was short and firm. When Harry called after fights this was usually the routine, and Stan stood by it each time.

The two reached the house, Stan opened the door for Harry, then kicked off his shoes, and called for his wife. Harry had left his things in the taxi but bought in the bloodied tape to throw away. When Linda's eyes met the bruised fighter, they softened and she immediately turned to retrieve supplies from the bathroom.

Her head shook as she pushed harry into the living room, first aid kit in hand. Muttering something about being off the clock, but the men waiting for Linda to talk to, or more so at, Harry as she typically did when this happened.

"I'm surprised this one stopped bleeding at all, " she said looking at the cut on Harry's eyebrow and reaching for the butterfly bandages. "You know Stan's offer still stands. And if you're not happy with that there's a reception job open at the hospital, I'm sure I could get you in. You have options, Harry. We like having you around and I don't know what I would tell the kids if you stopped coming around for some god awful reason."

"I know, I know." Harry's voice was quiet. He knew that he could find a job almost anywhere in the city, but he really did like fighting and the pay was good. He hadn't run into too much trouble with the job he had now and couldn't see anything bad around the corner.

Linda had dabbed and wiped all of the dried blood of off Harry's face and sat back on the couch. Harry continued to sit at the edge with this elbows on his knees and Stan lent against the doorway, arms crossed.

They had been in this position before, Harry bruised, Linda first aid kit in hand and Stan radiating some mixture of concern, disappointment, hope, and exhaustion. There was nothing left to say, words of the past still lingered between them and the elder couple knew that there was much more they could do, but let Harry pull himself out of the ring.

word count: 1511
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