Blood & Roses: The Blackwood Academy

Renee Morrison Jab. Cross. Left Hook. My gloves connected with the heavy bag in perfect succession, each punch landing exactly where I intended. The rhythm pulsed through my veins like a second heartbeat—one, two, three. My feet danced across the canvas, light and quick despite the burning in my calves. Coach Danny circled me, his weathered face splitting into a rare grin. “That’s it, Morrison! Beautiful! Again!” I reset my stance. The bag swung toward me, and I slipped left, feeling the whoosh of air as it passed. Counter—right uppercut to the body, left hook to where the head would be. The impact reverberated up my arms, satisfying and solid. “Time!” I dropped my hands, chest heaving. Coach Danny tossed me a towel, and I caught it one-handed. “You’re ready.” I lowered the towel, meeting his dark eyes. “Ready for what?” His grin widened, and he pulled a piece of paper from his clipboard. “Official rankings came out today.” My hands shook as I reached for the paper. I scanned down from the top. Madison Torres at number one, like always. Then— 2. Renee Morrison, 16, Chicago, IL - 19-3 (15 KOs) “Number two?” The words came out as barely a whisper. Coach Danny clapped my shoulder. “Number two in the entire country, Mija. At sixteen years old. Your father is going to lose his mind.” I spun toward the gym entrance, and there he was. My dad, James Morrison leaned against the doorframe, still in his work clothes—dusty jeans and a Morrison Construction Company t-shirt. His smile could have lit up the entire South Side of Chicago. He pushed off the wall and walked toward me, his eyes suspiciously bright. “Number two, huh? Guess that means we’re on our way to the Olympics.” I screamed, then launched myself at him, not caring that I was disgusting and sweaty. His arms closed around me, solid and safe, and he lifted me clean off the ground. I cried in his arms. “We’re going to the Olympics.” I repeated his words into his shoulder, and he laughed—that deep, rumbling sound that always made everything feel okay. “Damn right we are, baby girl. Damn right.” He set me down, holding me at arm’s length. Pride radiated from every line of his face. “Go shower. I’m taking you and your mom out to celebrate. Anywhere you want.” Twenty minutes later, I emerged from the locker room with my gym bag slung over my shoulder. Number two in the nation. The words kept running through my mind like a mantra. Two years from now, I’d be eligible for the Olympic qualifiers. Two years, and everything my father and I had worked for since I was a little girl would come true. My father draped his arm around my shoulders as we walked toward his truck. He clicked the key fob, and his new metallic blue Ford F-150 chirped in response. The truck gleamed under the parking lot lights—his pride and joy after years of building the construction company from the ground up. “So, where’s dinner? Lou Malnati’s? Gibson’s? You name it, champ.” I tossed my bag in the back and climbed into the passenger seat, sinking into the premium soft black leather that still smelled new. “Lou Malnati’s sounds perfect. With sausage and green peppers.” He grinned and pressed the start button. The Triton V8 engine roared to life with a satisfying growl that never got old. “Your mother is going to be too busy crying tears of joy to care what we order. Trust me.” The radio crackled as he pulled out of the parking lot, some classic rock station playing Journey. He sang along, completely off-key, and I couldn’t help but laugh. This man had spent countless hours driving me to training, holding mitts until his hands were numb, working double shifts so we could afford better coaching. “Dad?” He glanced at me, still grinning. “Yeah, baby girl?” “Thank you. For everything. For believing in me.” His expression softened, and he reached over to squeeze my hand. “Renee Catherine Morrison, believing in you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done. You’re going to be a champion. I knew it the first time you threw a punch.” I squeezed back. “Love you.” “Love you too, kiddo. More than... you’ll... ever—” My heart dropped to my stomach. "Dad?!" His head dropped forward, eyes closed. That's when the semi-truck came out of nowhere. One second we were driving, talking, existing in our perfect bubble of happiness. The next, the world exploded in a shriek of metal and breaking glass. I saw the truck’s headlights—blinding white light filling the entire windshield—and then we were spinning. The seatbelt locked across my chest. The impact came from my side. The passenger door crumpled inward with a sound like the end of the world. Glass rained down, tiny diamonds that sliced my skin. The airbag exploded in my face, and then we were rolling. Over and over, sky and ground trading places. My head cracked against something hard. Sound became muffled, distant, like I was underwater. Then, we stopped. The truck rested on its side, my father’s side down, as I hung suspended by my seatbelt. Disoriented and dizzy, smoke filled the cabin, acrid and choking. “Dad?!” I turned my head, and the movement sent jolts of lightning pain through my skull. “Dad?!” He was below me, crumpled against the driver’s side door. Blood everywhere. There was so much blood, it covered his face, dark and wet, and his eyes were closed. His arm was bent at an angle that made my stomach lurch. “Dad, please. Wake up!” I fumbled with my seatbelt, fingers slippery with blood. The buckle wouldn’t release. “Somebody help! Please! HELP!” Sirens wailed, as voices outside became distant and urgent, getting closer. Hands reached through the broken windshield, and someone was talking to me. My arms burned, but my heart was on fire. “My dad. You have to help my dad. Please!” “Ma’am, we’re going to get you out first. Stay still.” “NO! Get my dad! Please!” Strong hands gripped my shoulders. Someone cut my seatbelt, and I fell, caught by firefighters who pulled me through the shattered windshield. Glass embedded in my palms as I tried to fight them, tried to get back to my father. “Dad! DAD!” They laid me on a stretcher, strapping me down despite my struggles. An EMT shone a light in my eyes. I didn’t care. I craned my neck, searching for my father through the chaos of emergency vehicles and flashing lights. More firefighters worked to pry open the driver’s side door, moving too fast. Why were they moving so fast? No. No, no, no. “Is he okay? Please, is my dad okay?” The EMT working on me, a woman with kind eyes, placed a gentle hand on my forehead. “Focus on staying calm for me, sweetheart. What’s your name?” “Renee. My name is Renee, and that’s my dad, you have to save him. Please.” “We’re doing everything we can, Renee.” The EMTs finally pulled my father from the wreckage, laying him on a backboard. Even from a distance, I could see the blood, could see the way his body lay too still. “Dad!” I screamed his name until my throat was raw, until the world started to blur at the edges. The EMT said something about shock. A needle pricked my arm, and warmth spread through my veins. “No, I need to stay awake. I need to see him.” But she wouldn’t look at me when she spoke. She looked at her partner, and something passed between them—something that made my chest constrict with terror. The ambulance doors slammed shut. The siren wailed, and I stared at the ceiling, at anything but the truth trying to claw its way into my consciousness. My father’s voice echoed in my mind. “Love you too, kiddo. More than you’ll ever—” He hadn’t finished. The hospital came in flashes. Bright lights overhead, wheeling gurneys, people in scrubs running alongside me. Someone cut away my clothes. Questions came rapid-fire. “Renee, can you tell me your date of birth?” “March 15th.” “What day is it today?” “Wednesday. January 8th.” “Excellent. Renee, you’ve been in a serious accident. We need to take you to surgery to repair some internal bleeding.” I grabbed the doctor’s coat, my bloody fingers leaving marks on the white fabric. “My dad. Where’s my dad? I need to see him.” The doctor gently removed my hand. “Your father is being treated. Right now, we need to focus on you.” “But is he okay? Please, just tell me if he’s okay.” He hesitated. That damned hesitation that told me everything and nothing. “The trauma team is with him.” A nurse appeared at my side, syringe in hand. “Renee, I’m going to give you something for the pain. It’s going to make you sleepy.” The chill seared my chest like a jagged shard. “No. I need to know about my dad. Where’s my mom?” But the needle was already in my IV, and the world started to soften. My father’s blood was still on my clothes, still under my fingernails, still matted in my hair. “Dad...” His name was the last thing on my lips before the darkness pulled me under. *** I woke in pieces. The stabbing pain came first, sharp and insistent, radiating from my ribs and head. Then sounds, steady beeping, hushed voices. Finally, light filtered through my eyelids. I forced my eyes open. A hospital room. White walls, white ceiling. An IV snaked into my left arm, and monitors blinked beside the bed. My mother sat in a chair by the window, her face buried in her hands. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs. Memory crashed over me. The truck. The impact. My father’s blood. “Mom?” Her head snapped up. Her face was red and swollen, mascara streaked down her cheeks, eyes hollow with grief so profound it stole my breath. She stumbled to my bedside, grabbing my hand. “Renee. Oh, baby. Oh, thank God.” “Mom, where’s Dad? Is he—” I couldn’t finish the question. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks, and her grip on my hand tightened until it hurt. The door opened. A doctor entered, older, with gray hair and kind eyes that had seen too much death. He approached slowly. I knew before he spoke. I knew from my mother’s face, from the doctor’s expression, from the way the air felt too thick to breathe. The doctor pulled up a stool and sat down, meeting my eyes directly. “Renee, I’m Dr. Patterson. I was part of the team that treated your father when he arrived.” Was. Past tense. “The trauma he sustained in the accident was severe. However, the root cause of the crash was an unexpected brain aneurism. We did everything we could, but the injuries were too extensive. I’m so sorry, Renee. Your father didn’t make it.” The words hit like a punch to the gut. The monitors shrieked as my heart rate spiked, and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. “No!” I shook my head, ignoring the pain. “No, you’re wrong. He was just talking to me. We were going to celebrate. He was fine. He was—” My mother climbed into the hospital bed beside me, wrapping her arms around me as sobs tore from my chest. The sound that came out of me wasn’t human—it was raw, animal and broken. “He can’t be dead. He can’t. Mom, tell them they’re wrong.” She held me tighter, her own sobs matching mine, and said nothing. Because there was nothing to say. Number two in the nation. Olympic dreams. My father’s pride. His last words, unfinished. “Love you too, kiddo. More than you’ll ever—” More than I’d ever know. Dr. Patterson stood, giving us privacy. The door closed with a soft click, and I buried my face in my mother’s shoulder, screaming until my throat was raw. Remnants of my father’s blood was still on my skin. And nothing... not boxing, not rankings, not Olympic dreams, would ever matter the same way again.