more often than not, I ended up with a ton of cash in my pocket. I was breathing hard, more from the adrenaline coursing through me than anything, and when I looked around, the crowds were a blur.
“You did it, Mathias. You’re good,” Bish said to me quietly. It took me a good five minutes to come down, to calm down, but when I did, the world returned to its normal, clear balance.
The fights were happening in earnest around us, with five smaller rings surrounding the large one I’d fought in. There were cheers and boos, and the smell of the fight was unmistakable.
We were just getting ready to head out and collect our money when Randy approached us.
“Hey, Bish, we’ve got an opening,” Randy told him, and pointed to one of the empty outer rings.
Bish froze. It was only for a split second, but I didn’t miss it. The guy he’d be fighting was a big Indian, and he looked a hell of a lot like Bish’s father.
Too many memories.
No. If I could sign loudly, that would’ve counted.
“I want to,” Bish told me.
Then roll the dice.
Bish glared at me, then took them out of his pocket. We did this sometimes, the casting of lots. It signified that nothing was random and that the lots, the dice, whatever the tell might be, reveal the true will of the universe.
The dice came back with a three. My birth month.
“Bastard,” Bish grunted, but I knew he was grateful. I looked at the big Indian and wondered if life just continued to repeat itself until you learned something. But what else was there for me to learn? I had no regrets that I’d killed Bish’s dad when I was twelve. I’d done it so my dad wouldn’t have to, but most importantly, so Bish wouldn’t have to.
Most of all, I did it to save my best friend. My brother. Because he would’ve done it—there was enough rage in his eyes that day that I knew it would happen.
Which is one reason why I fight now. I fight for redemption—redemption for my anger, redemption for everything. Even though I’m not sure I believe in Heaven, I do believe in souls, and mine has a black mark. A black mark for a damned good reason, but I’ve played judge, jury and executioner for someone.
Sometimes, I felt like I was put here to avenge. Look, I was named after the apostle who took Judas the traitor’s place—and that Mathias beat out a guy named Justus, so I find that really telling.
So when they say I have no conscience, they’re right. Not when it comes to killing someone who deserves it.
Someone like Bish’s dad. I fight because he fought his whole life. Because, even though he lived with us, for all intents and purposes, he had to go home to his father at times, so CPS and SS and the rest wouldn’t go postal on him or my family.
My family hadn’t cared about that, but Bish had. And every time he went back there, he’d fought for his life. So that’s also why I fight now. So he doesn’t have to ever again, unless he wants to.
I took the Indian down easily and Bish and I called it a night. I let him drive home.
“You only let me when you’re worried about me,” Bish pointed out.
Am I wrong?
Bish shrugged. “M’okay now.”
I let him pick the music—this time, it was Cypress Hill’s “Rise Up,” and I knew it was one of his favorites because it was released right before the Chaos. It fit my mood, serving to mellow me out despite the driving beat, because I was slightly punch-drunk and sleepy from the night before, and I found myself talking nonsense to Bish, because I could. Talking about Jessa and the night before and then I signed, What if this is only her trying to live out some fantasy?
“What, like girls gone wild, Chaos style?”
Stranger things have happened. She’s like...American royalty , for Christ’s sake.
“And she slept with you willingly.”
I feel like ...
I couldn’t finish. But with Bish, I didn’t have to.
“Like she can fix everything for you,” Bish said quietly. He wasn’t making fun of me. “That’s
“You did it, Mathias. You’re good,” Bish said to me quietly. It took me a good five minutes to come down, to calm down, but when I did, the world returned to its normal, clear balance.
The fights were happening in earnest around us, with five smaller rings surrounding the large one I’d fought in. There were cheers and boos, and the smell of the fight was unmistakable.
We were just getting ready to head out and collect our money when Randy approached us.
“Hey, Bish, we’ve got an opening,” Randy told him, and pointed to one of the empty outer rings.
Bish froze. It was only for a split second, but I didn’t miss it. The guy he’d be fighting was a big Indian, and he looked a hell of a lot like Bish’s father.
Too many memories.
No. If I could sign loudly, that would’ve counted.
“I want to,” Bish told me.
Then roll the dice.
Bish glared at me, then took them out of his pocket. We did this sometimes, the casting of lots. It signified that nothing was random and that the lots, the dice, whatever the tell might be, reveal the true will of the universe.
The dice came back with a three. My birth month.
“Bastard,” Bish grunted, but I knew he was grateful. I looked at the big Indian and wondered if life just continued to repeat itself until you learned something. But what else was there for me to learn? I had no regrets that I’d killed Bish’s dad when I was twelve. I’d done it so my dad wouldn’t have to, but most importantly, so Bish wouldn’t have to.
Most of all, I did it to save my best friend. My brother. Because he would’ve done it—there was enough rage in his eyes that day that I knew it would happen.
Which is one reason why I fight now. I fight for redemption—redemption for my anger, redemption for everything. Even though I’m not sure I believe in Heaven, I do believe in souls, and mine has a black mark. A black mark for a damned good reason, but I’ve played judge, jury and executioner for someone.
Sometimes, I felt like I was put here to avenge. Look, I was named after the apostle who took Judas the traitor’s place—and that Mathias beat out a guy named Justus, so I find that really telling.
So when they say I have no conscience, they’re right. Not when it comes to killing someone who deserves it.
Someone like Bish’s dad. I fight because he fought his whole life. Because, even though he lived with us, for all intents and purposes, he had to go home to his father at times, so CPS and SS and the rest wouldn’t go postal on him or my family.
My family hadn’t cared about that, but Bish had. And every time he went back there, he’d fought for his life. So that’s also why I fight now. So he doesn’t have to ever again, unless he wants to.
I took the Indian down easily and Bish and I called it a night. I let him drive home.
“You only let me when you’re worried about me,” Bish pointed out.
Am I wrong?
Bish shrugged. “M’okay now.”
I let him pick the music—this time, it was Cypress Hill’s “Rise Up,” and I knew it was one of his favorites because it was released right before the Chaos. It fit my mood, serving to mellow me out despite the driving beat, because I was slightly punch-drunk and sleepy from the night before, and I found myself talking nonsense to Bish, because I could. Talking about Jessa and the night before and then I signed, What if this is only her trying to live out some fantasy?
“What, like girls gone wild, Chaos style?”
Stranger things have happened. She’s like...American royalty , for Christ’s sake.
“And she slept with you willingly.”
I feel like ...
I couldn’t finish. But with Bish, I didn’t have to.
“Like she can fix everything for you,” Bish said quietly. He wasn’t making fun of me. “That’s
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