The night is a mistress of life. It is the hardest time to be alive for, those silent hours bring forth Melancholic air and scandalous actions. In its prime it feeds off of the secrets, schemes and lies made within it, knowing it was only a matter o...
"Unless we remember we cannot understand." - E.M. Forster
Underground, New York June 25th
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We live in cynical times.
An abysmal sky littered with clouds hover the world over like a dark halo. The white and gray contorted figures suppress the scary, complicated, ugly mess; conceal the cruel and broken world that we live in portraying beauty.
We romanticize our evolution, claim superiority, ignore how idealistic deities inundated us into a cage meant to tame the monstrosity inside by polishing our savagery, making matter matter, another desperate attempt at happiness.
This is what forsaken and forgotten looks like.
The MMA heavy bag swung violently with each punch I threw, the chains connected to the ceiling that supported its weight tugged in protest. My body is moist with sweat, my muscles are beginning to ache, I don't stop.
And yet, drowning in the storm, the tides and waves harsh and lethal, the depth hides pearls, lifelines that help us ride out the storm.
I inhale deep breaths, to ease the burning in my lungs. My heart continues to thrash against my rib cage, stressed by recent events. My thoughts are so chaotic, I add more force into the punches I throw, increase the pace and try to focus.
Knowing its tainted glory, I linger in the madness, comfortable in the dark, and do my best not to fall into despair.
There were too many times when I almost did: Niccolò diagnosed with cancer; when Jela betrayed me; when I lost her.
Porca puttana.
The last punch I threw caused the chains to the bag to crack the ceiling, instantly releasing the weight of the bag.
This was meant to be a distraction.
The grains that spilled from the bag at the tear from its restraints, resembled hope, slipping through my fingers.
A wave of defeat flows through me as I look at it.
Andrea, my younger brother, has a tumor wrapped around his aorta and they're only six people who have succeeded in removing a tumor, like his.
Walking towards the bench, I sit, pressing my forearms into my thighs. I don't reach for my water by my foot, nor do I pick up the towel to wipe the sweat off my chest. Body frozen, I simply stare at the floor, with my mind repeating the same thing:
I cannot lose another brother.
" Boss, we got her. She's tied to one of the beds."
Hope is just as dangerous as despair, if not more.
Clenching my jaw, I finally wiped the perspiration from my face then chest, then looked at Axel, stationed by the door. "Why?" Staring at him for an extra second, I notice bruises are beginning to settle around his cheek and eye.
