by Erica M Kim
38
Tuesday breakfast is eggs Benedict with homemade hollandaise. I make it methodically without error or hesitation. The last time I ate this meal, it was with Lio. But I don’t let my mind linger on that thought very long. In fact, I don’t even taste my meal. I force my mouth to chew and swallow down the food. The taste of food doesn’t matter. In fact, nothing does but killing Vincent Moreno.
I focus on keeping myself busy. I spend hours planning exactly how this assignment will go down. I analyze the sketches of both Crux and Vincent’s mansion and carefully memorize every corner and hiding spot. Exit routes are marked fastidiously. I then study a map of the neighborhoods surrounding both locations and memorize each street, especially the ones to avoid as they lead to a dead end.
The next step is to finalize the meeting arrangement with Vincent. I call him and suggest that we meet at the place where we met for the first time: Crux. It takes every nerve in my body to make sure my voice sounds excited and alluring, and Vincent gobbles it all up. Even calling it a splendid idea. It is too easy.
By pouring my all into work, I shut out every happy memory I had with Lio. Those memories seem to pervade my mind endlessly without notice. Whenever I find my mind slipping into a daydream about Lio, I immediately refocus and remind myself of why it’s simply impossible for our relationship to exist. I keep putting each of those memories into a mental shredder, though they continually resurrect themselves. Control, Lunis. It’s all about self-control. Control. You feel nothing at all.
Once the details of the venue are mapped out and stored in my mind, I change into running gear and run toward the beach until it feels like my lungs will explode. With each stride, I run away from all of the misery and destruction I’ve caused. It’s liberating, albeit temporary. The app on my phone tells me that I ran a total of eleven miles today. But my work doesn’t stop there.
Back at home, I do squats, lifts, lunges, pull-ups, push-ups, curls, and crunches. My entire body is dripping with sweat. By focusing the pain somewhere else, I don’t feel my heartache. I repeat one word the entire time. Control. Control. Control.
After the grueling workout, I spend the next hour loading and unloading my Smith and Wesson .38 special revolver until it feels like it’s just an extension of my hands. Another hour goes by with my throwing knives and target practice in the garage. Each knife whizzes through the air, meeting its mark with deadly precision. I don’t miss once, but even that fact doesn’t bring satisfaction. I feel nothing at all.
Next, I move onto other knives. I listen to the air around me slice open with my quick movements. With each slash into the air, I imagine my ties to Lio getting cut to pieces. Again and again into smaller pieces. I feel nothing at all. Once this hour is up, I start all over again. Play. Repeat. Refine. Obsess. This is how I pass the next forty-eight hours.
I feel nothing at all. I have no fears. I am a machine. I have the utmost control. I cannot be hurt. I will not cry. I do not care. I am in control. I have no heart. I do not deserve. I cannot love. I am in command. CTRL + ALT + DEL.
39
I was only eighteen when I began to sell my trade on the black market. My foray into the underworld was actually quite fortuitous. For the first six torturous full moons after my parents’ deaths, I holed myself up in the tiny five hundred square foot studio I found in a very sketchy neighborhood in downtown and practiced controlling the rage that took over me. Often I failed, succumbing to the monster inside me, sometimes waking in the morning in a park, or on a sidewalk, or finding my apartment a complete wreck. I’m pretty certain that I caused quite the trouble in my neighborhood, but at least I didn’t murder anyone senselessly again.
What seemed to work more often than not was focusing on the faces of my loving parents. When I focused on the love that I felt for them, and from them, the shreds of my humanity seemed to stay intact. But that didn’t mean that it was easy. After months of training, I was able to gain enough control to stop losing consciousness. A few months after that, I could direct my fury at something or someone specific. It actually took years of training to get to a point where I could meditate the whole night during a full moon. And even now, it’s extremely difficult.
It was during these months and years of training that I came to understand that keeping a healthy mind and body contributed to better control during the full moon. I began to train relentlessly, pushing my body in a way I had never experienced before. I turned to meditation and yoga to help keep my mind clear and composed.
Once I was able to maintain some sort of mastery over the wickedness that overtook me, I decided to finish up school after the hiatus I had taken. It was the least I could do to honor my parents, but school did not pay for the mounting living expenses.
The skimpy pile of money from selling all of my parents’ belongings was dwindling, and I barely had enough to eat more than a cup of noodles a day. I racked my brains to find work.
One night, I wandered to a dark bar near my apartment. It was shabby, with a Cocktails sign that looked like it was made in the ‘70s. I had seen the bar hundreds of times, but never even thought of visiting. It seemed like a place that only the truly desperate and lonely would seek, knowing that no decent person would search for them there. That night, I was one of them. No one even carded me as I casually strolled into the musty bar. No one dared to turn down the only young woman at the bar. I desperately hoped that I would at least be able to sucker some man to buy me a shot of whiskey to melt away the pinpricks of anxiety that had been chipping away at my sanity. Fortunately, I didn’t have to try to look lonesome for long before a mustached man approached me.
“Can I get you somethin’, sweetheart?” I wanted to flinch at his intrusive eyes roving my face and body, but I had no choice but to smile and nod.
“A shot of Jameson.”
The man was old enough to be my father; he looked like he came straight to the bar after a day of physical labor. His clothes were dusty, and flecks of white paint covered his boots and torn jeans.
As the amber liquid warmed the pits of my empty stomach, I barely held a two-way conversation with the man. This didn’t deter him. In his mind, buying me a drink was the golden ticket to get in my pants, and he didn’t even notice that he was having a one-way conversation. The moment he took a breather from his twenty-minute soliloquy about gods-know-what to turn to the bartender, I bolted to the ladies’ room. I regretted coming here. I didn’t know what I was doing, let alone what I was looking for.
As I walked through the dingy halls to the restroom, I noticed a bulletin board near the out-of-commission payphone. It was covered with homemade advertisements, with names and phone numbers written on strips cut at the bottom of the paper. My heart fluttered as one caught my eyes.
FEMALE FIGHTERS WANTED FOR MMA FIGHTS.
ANY WEIGHT CLASS. MUST BE TRAINED.
CALL BEN LISSMORE.
213-555-5665
Fighting. That’s something I could do if I kept physically training. Especially if the fight lands on the night of a full moon. It might even be a welcomed distraction. I moved closer to the advertisement, my hand reaching out to tear one of the strips with the phone number. No one had torn any phone numbers off yet.
“You wanna fight, huh?” An amused voice came from my right. My eyes met the blue eyes of a young man. His dirty blond hair was styled into messy spikes, and a worn-down brown leather jacket was opened to reveal a yellow T-shirt underneath. His mouth opened into an inviting smile, revealing the most straight, white teeth I had ever seen.
“Ben Lissmore, himself,” he said, holding out his hand. “I wouldn’t take ya for the fighting type. Your face is way too pretty to damage, Sugarpie.”
Inexperience and naiveté halted my speech. I stood in silence and just shook his hand, smiling timidly.
“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” I said finally after taking a few moments to recover.
“So you’re saying you’re a trained fighter? I’ll need to see yo
u practice in the ring before I can believe you. Can you come by on Saturday?” I hadn’t planned this out at all. At this point in my life, I hadn’t started any formal MMA training and only felt confident in the ring during a full moon. I certainly did not expect the owner of the advertisement to be standing by as I read it. Shit.
“I’m not free on Saturday. And actually, I need to know when the fight is first. My availability is limited. And how much do I get?”
“Sugarpie, I’m not going to schedule you for one unless I know you can hold your own. You think I’m stupid enough to put some inexperienced girl in the ring and get the living shit kicked out of her? No way. Andre would kill me. And the amount each fighter gets paid differs based on experience.”
“Andre?”
“He’s my boss. He’s in charge of the whole fight.”
“When’s the fight?”
“The next one is on May 23, three weeks away.” As luck would have it, May 23 happened to fall exactly on the night of the next full moon. So the gods did have a plan for me. My face broke into a smile.
“What do I need to do to get you to believe that I have what it takes?”
“I need to see you practice in the ring,” Ben repeated exasperation written on his face.
“What do I need to do to get you to believe me without seeing me practice?”
“That’s not happening.”
“Please! I’ll do anything.” I put my hands together, then added, “Almost,” with a coy smile. Ben's eyes flickered as I saw his imagination run wild. I began regretting my offer instantly.
“Anything, huh?”
“Almost anything.”
“Hmm . . . this is awesome . . .” he said with a sly smirk on his face as if he just won first place in a race without even trying. “I want you to go on three dates with me, from now until May 23.”
“I won’t do anything physical with you.”
“Sugarpie, I’m not asking you to. By the end of the third date, you’ll be begging me to,” he said as he flashed a wicked, confident grin. I tried with all my might to prevent my eyes from rolling. I needed him.
“Fine. Deal. What about your boss, Andre?”
“Oh, don’t worry about Andre. I’ll deal with him. Our first date is tomorrow night. Meet me in front of this bar, at 8 p.m. See you later, Sugar.”
Ugh, what did I get myself into? Well, the worst of it would be that I would have to endure his presence for several hours, but maybe he wouldn’t turn out to be so bad. At the very least, I’d be able to score a free meal or two out of him. Sayonara cup-o-noodles.
The next day, I found myself sitting in front of my closet with my head in my hands. I had a measly five outfits to choose from. And despite how utterly meaningless this date was, I still couldn’t help but care about how I looked. After all, it was still the very first date I would be going on—ever. I knew to stay away from anything too revealing—not that I owned anything remotely revealing. I decided to go classy. A classy lady would force Ben to be a classy gentleman, I hoped naively.
This only led to one choice in the outfit division: a black dress that elegantly draped across my body in several layers, ending at about mid-thigh length. It was a graduation gift from my parents and one of the few pieces of clothing that I couldn’t bear parting with. My shoulders and arms started to show definition from my at-home workouts, and this dress showed them off nicely.
When I left my apartment, no one would be able to guess that I was a nearly starving, desperate young woman, wearing the most valuable things she owned. As I turned the key and heard the click of the lock, I also tucked away the broken side of my life and put on an impenetrable mask of confidence, self-assurance, and swagger. It was going to be a long night, and there was no point in feeling sorry for myself.
Turns out that Ben wasn’t too bad of a guy after all, despite the crazy side that occasionally came out when the liquor flowed. I learned that he was twenty-two years old and was originally from Colorado but had been living in Los Angeles, working odd jobs since he was eighteen. He was quirky and somewhat of a loner too—which is how we related.
By the end of the second date, he had me hysterically laughing as we walked down Melrose Avenue, both licking ice cream cones. He had taken me to a matinee improv show. The show itself was subpar, but Ben had figured me out enough to understand what made me laugh, and he loved doing so. He was undeniably falling for me. Hard. Even my naive sense told me that much.
I could often see Ben restraining himself from touching my hair or getting too close, as he tried to keep his promise about “nothing physical.” I enjoyed his company for the most part, despite being annoyed by him at times, and it was a much-needed reprieve after many months of solitary confinement. He didn’t know much about me, and he didn’t ask. He just focused on making me happy in the moment. He was the first friend I had since Damien, except the more time I spent with Ben, the less of a friend I became to him. I was slowly entering dangerous territory, but I couldn’t break my promise to him because I was desperate to fight.
As we reached the front of my apartment, he told me he would pick me up next Friday night for our final date. I couldn’t tell if I felt relieved or disappointed—I suppose a bittersweet mixture of both.
40
On Friday, Ben arrived in front of my apartment, carrying a bouquet of the reddest roses I had ever seen. He had spent a pretty penny in the downtown Flower District, making sure that the florist only selected the utmost perfect buds.
“Thanks, Ben. I’ve never gotten flowers before.” I truly appreciated the sweet gesture.
“You’re kidding me. A lady like you has never gotten flowers? You must have been seriously ugly up until I met you.” A playful smile teased his lips.
“Maybe I still am, and you just can’t see properly.” I returned his smile.
“Oh no, Sugarpie. I see how other men look at you. In fact, they look at me as if I’m not worthy enough to be in your presence.”
“That doesn’t necessarily have to do with beauty,” I said with laughter.
“You’re saying I look like I’m a scumbag?” His blue eyes feigned hurt.
“I didn’t say anything,” I protested, pushing him jokingly.
A short drive later in Ben’s cobalt blue 1965 Mustang GT, we arrived in front of what looked like an old, nondescript theatre in Hollywood. After the valet took away the vehicle, Ben offered his hand out to me, and I accepted. What the hell, I thought with a shrug. After tonight, there was a good chance that I may never spend time with Ben again. Why not make a man happy for one night? Admittedly, I was also gleeful. This was the first time in a very long time that my skin had felt the warmth of another human’s touch. And despite the fact that I felt absolutely nothing for Ben, I still reveled in the attention he poured me. I felt like a queen, even though I would never tell anyone—especially Ben.
As we approached the venue, a young, tall man with a shaved head approached us.
“Hey, man, good to see you,” Ben said as they clasped hands.
“Yeah, same to you. It’s been a minute.”
“Lunis, this is Tyrelle. Tyrelle, Lunis.” I reached out and shook his hand.
“Thanks for the hook up, man,” Ben said.
“No problem, man. I owed you one from last time. Thank you for hookin’ a homie up,” Tyrelle responded as he clasped Ben’s hand for the second time. I suddenly remembered that I might be carded and then thrown out from the place. I held my breath as we bypassed the line and the bouncers. We entered without a hitch. Ben must have done a really big favor for Tyrelle, I thought as I let out a quiet sigh.
The décor inside was a sight for sore eyes. The entire room glowed with pink lighting: the walls, the white décor, even the floors. Along the wall, there were wide beds that sat next to each other, with a small table in the middle. In the center of the room, there was a stage where performances would likely take place.
“Why didn’t you tell me to dress nicer?” I whisp
ered once the shock of the stunning décor wore off. To my dismay, I had worn leggings and a lacey camisole that Ben bought for me on Melrose. All the other women were scantily clad in fancy dresses.
“You look hot, Sugarpie. Hotter than anyone else here,” he said with a wink.
A hostess escorted us towards one of the beds. I realized then that it meant Ben and I would have to sit rather intimately. I paused at the foot of the bed.
“I figured this would be the only way to get you into bed tonight,” he said as if he read my mind. My eyes rolled back in response.
As soon as we were settled in, a waiter arrived with a bottle of champagne. It had a yellow label, but I had no idea whether it was nice or not.
“Good luck to your fight night. I hope you kick some ass. I can’t bear the thought of this pretty face gettin’ hurt,” Ben toasted as we clinked glasses before we both drained our champagnes.
The prix fixe courses started to arrive, then the lights dimmed down around us, preparing for the show. With the lights dimmed, I couldn’t help but notice that Ben snuggled in closer to me, and I was grateful that I wore leggings. I didn’t want to tempt him in any way.
The room filled with mysterious music as a rope dropped in from the ceiling. Dangling from the rope was a scantily clad woman, wearing what looked like shrink wrap. Beneath her, a man dressed from head to toe in a gold vinyl outfit, danced liquidly, twisting and contorting his body in ways that look both mesmerizing and painful.
“I was right, you know, Sugarpie,” he said to me as his eyes roved across my camisole and face. “You are the most beautiful creature here. You have no idea how stunning you are.”