Ice Cold Obsession

Mia The trick is to make them underestimate you. I lower my eyes, let my hands tremble, and curl my shoulders inward. Across from me Brick grins his thick arms crossed over his chest. “You sure you wanna do this, sweetheart?” I bite my lip. “Not really.” The crowd laughs. The underground ring reeks of sweat, alcohol, and blood with music pounding through the walls as people crowd around us waving cash and shouting bets. My ribs ache from my last fight, and the cut above my eyebrow stings, but I ignore both knowing I need the money. Brick lunges but I duck under his fist and drive my knuckles into his ribs and before he can recover, I strike his jaw making his grin disappear. The crowd erupts. “Yeah!!!” He swings wildly, I dodge circle him and wait for an opening. When he catches my shoulder with a glancing punch, pain shoots down my arm. I swallow the sound threatening to escape knowing that weakness costs money. Brick charges again and grabs my wrist and for one terrifying second I freeze. Fingers tightening around my skin sent a familiar pressure. The certainty that fighting back will only make things worse. Then the crowd roars, dragging me back. This isn’t home. This isn’t my father. I twist free and slam my elbow into Brick’s chest making him stumble as I follow with two quick strikes making him drop to his knees. The referee rushes between us. “That’s it! We have a winner!” Cheers fill the room. Brick glares at me from the floor. I offer him a chuckle mumbling, “Sorry.” Not that I mean it. I didn’t waste time in collecting my winnings and left before anyone noticed my shaking hands and worst of all before my father noticed I was still not back home. I count the cash letting out a hiss in irritation, the money is less than I hoped, but it will cover food and perhaps part of the electricity bill. Every dollar matters when you’re living with someone who can turn an ordinary evening into a nightmare. As I reached outside the building my phone vibrated. Aunt Esme. Sweetheart, have you thought about the scholarship? The deadline is approaching. You deserve a chance to choose your own future. Another message follows. Your mother would have wanted more for you. I stare at the screen. Mom. Even after all these years, the word hurts. Aunt Eseme has been trying to convince me to leave for months. She sends school information and scholarship applications, offering me opportunities I can’t imagine myself deserving. And I’ve told her times without number that I wasn’t going there but she remains resilient I lock my phone and head home. The walk home was a fifteen minute walk. I got there in no time, the hallway smells of cigarettes and damp carpet. Outside our apartment I pause with my key in hand, listening. Silence. It should comfort me, but silence can be dangerous too. Sometimes it means my father is asleep and sometimes it means he’s waiting for something to be angry about. I unlock the door. “I’m home.” My father sits on the couch with an empty bottle beside his feet. His bloodshot eyes move to my swollen cheek. “What the f**k happened to your face?” “I fell.” He laughs without humor. “You fell?” I keep my gaze lowered, refusing to meet his gaze.. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.” He orders in irritation. I obey knowing better not to. His expression hardens. “Where have you been?” “Working.” The bottle leaves his hand before I can react. It shatters against the wall beside my head, sending glass across the floor making me flinch. “Working?” he spits. “You call whatever the hell you’re doing working?” I say nothing as he grabs my arm and yanks me toward him causing pain to shoots through my shoulder. “Do you think you’re better than me?” “No.” “Then why do you keep acting like it?” “I’m not.” “Everything I’ve done for you, and this is how you repay me you ungrateful b***h?” I stare at the floor waiting for the familiar insults fighting back the stinging tears . Then he says the words that always hurt the most.“Your mother would be ashamed of you.” My throat tightens. He shoves me against the wall causing flares through my ribs, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. Keep it together Mia, you can do this! “You think you can run around doing whatever you want?” he demands. “You think I don’t know that you’re out there slutting around, throwing yourself at rich brat just to get money” “I’m sorry” I mumbled, knowing better than to argue with him, it’ll only make things worse. His fingers close around my throat. My back presses against the wall as I struggle to breathe. I caught his wrist. I could fight him. I know exactly where to strike, how to twist, how to make him release me but this is my father. Even now, some foolish part of me still loves him, maybe because he’s all I have left or because a child never completely stops wanting her father to love her back. I hate that I can’t seem to kill that part of myself. Finally, he releases me with a shove. “Get out of my sight.” I stumble toward the kitchen counter catching myself before I fall. He returns to the couch and turns up the television. I wait until his attention shifts away from me before retreating to my room. I lock my bedroom door and slide to the floor. My hands won’t stop shaking. I press them together, as if I can force my body to forget what just happened. My throat burns with every breath sending pain through my ribs. I close my eyes and a memory rises before I can stop it. I’m little again sitting on a chair while Mom kneels in front of me, cleaning a scrape on my knee. “There you go sweetheart. Almost done.” She soothes with her gentle fingers are gentle. Afterward she blows softly on the wound, as if her breath can make the pain disappear. I remember believing her. Then the memory fades leaving the same question I’ve carried for years. What if I had done something differently? People tell me I was a child. They tell me I couldn’t have prevented what happened to her. Aunt Esmeralda has said it more times than I can count. I just can’t make myself believe them. If Mom’s death wasn’t my fault, then why does it still feel like something I deserve to be punished for? I push myself up and head to the bathroom. The mirror is cracked in one corner. I avoid looking directly at my reflection as I wash the blood from my knuckles and clean the cut above my eyebrow. Two fingers are split and my cheek is already swelling. I grip the sink and finally look at myself. I look exhausted in a way sleep can’t fix. “Get it together Mia,” I whisper.