Revival

by Rebecca Sherwin

  I struggled to my feet, dazed, confused and with a mean headache. Why did he do that, the coward? I bent over and put my hands on my knees to try and right myself; my books fell over my head and hit the floor. The bastard had unzipped my bag and the worksheets and post-its were blowing across the car park. With a groan, I scrambled to shove what I could back in my bag and stumbled into the gym.

  The boys all stopped and stared when I walked in. Not only could I taste the blood and feel my lip throbbing, I could see the little red plops on my white school shirt. I knew I couldn’t get away with it. They knew the rules. I bowed my head and skulked to the office to get it over with. I knocked on the door and opened it when Geoff called for me to come in.

  “What time do you call this?” He turned his chair and his face paled when he looked up from his watch and saw me. He groaned, “Curtis.”

  “I didn’t,” I raised my hands in defence. “I swear, I didn’t do it. I didn’t see it coming.”

  “Then why are you late?”

  “Miss Harper wanted to talk to me. I got a B on her test.”

  He didn’t believe me. His eyebrows shot up and he shook his head.

  “I did!” I insisted, unzipping my bag to get the paper out. “Look!”

  It was gone.

  It must have blown away when my bag was undone. I stared hopefully at Geoff. If there was one thing I didn’t do, it was lie. If I messed up, I admitted to it. I prayed he knew that but, judging by the way he gripped the arms of his chair and got to his feet, he didn’t.

  “Out.”

  I sighed in defeat and turned to leave. Geoff followed me and as we exited the office, the training stopped and all eyes fell on me again.

  “Drop.”

  I looked over my shoulder at him, “What?”

  “On the floor. On your stomach.”

  I was embarrassed; I could feel my face redden and my skin prickled. I shrugged out of my blazer and dropped it to the floor with my bag. I noticed my Walkman and headphones were missing as I got to the floor.

  “Fifty press-ups, fifty burpees. Go.”

  I took a deep breath and began. Geoff clapped and shouted to the other, “Back to work!”

  Training resumed, but I knew they were watching me out of the corners of their eyes as I endured my first humiliating lesson a la Geoff while he stood and watched me. I was telling the truth. I’d actually done something good for once.

  “Curtis?”

  Geoff entered the flat later that night while I was on the sofa doing homework and trying to ignore the ache in every muscle in my body. After my press-ups and burpees, he made me jump rope and do fifty sit ups. And I still had to clean the floors afterwards.

  He joined me on the sofa and closed my textbook over my hand.

  “What?”

  “It’s discipline, son. Don’t ‘ate me for it.”

  “I don’t.”

  I didn’t. I enjoyed it. It hurt, I wanted to stop and tell Geoff where to stick his burpees, but I didn’t. I didn’t give up and when he let me finish, I felt incredible.

  “Good. I’m sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “I called the school and caught Harper before she left. You got a B, kid.”

  “I did.”

  “Good job,” he squeezed my shoulder. “I’m proud of ya.”

  “Thanks,” I choked, hiding the emotion. I had a vague memory of my father telling me the same thing. “I really didn’t see it coming. He stole my Walkman, too.”

  Music was my release. The angry beat, the aggressive pounding, the relentless rhythm made me feel better, relaxed. I was mad that I’d have to listen to the laughter on the way home from school and feel like the outcast I was. I could hear the kids behind me calling my name. I didn’t turn around – I knew they’d say something that would just make me feel more worthless, or I’d go on a rampage, floor them all and end up in juvenile prison. No Geoff. No fighting. That wasn’t an option.

  “We’ll replace it,” he ruffled my hair. It actually comforted me. “I jus’ ordered ya some training gear. It’ll be ‘ere tomorra and we’ll start ya lessons.”

  “Really?” I could hear the elation in my voice.

  “Yes,” he chuckled. “You’re ready. Keep it up, Curtis. You can do this.”

  He tapped my textbook as he got up and left the flat.

  I looked down at my hands and curled them into fists. I was ready.

  Chapter Four

  I was Cut Throat Curtis. I had to admit, I loved it, my new identity.

  I’d found a home and a new name. On my nineteenth birthday.

  Time to celebrate with something more long-lasting than a sponge cake.

  May 16th, 1997

  I leaned over the sink and took deep breaths. Standing up and looking in the mirror, I looked at what had become of my body. I had been training for two years. I had watched my fat turn to muscle. I had watched my weaknesses turn to strength. I had watched myself grow. I had learned to conceal and control every emotion, every thought, every action.

  I was ready for this.

  My debut.

  I was afraid, but that was something I could control; it was something I could use. I had slugged it out and worked my ass off for twenty-four months solid. I had learned and trained to be a machine. I had gained the ability to floor guys twice my size. All I had to do now was prove, to myself, that it was worth it.

  “Curtis?”

  Geoff peeped his head around the door as I looked in the mirror, speaking silently to the me who, two years ago, couldn’t have done this.

  “I need to get ya strapped up.”

  He pointed to a bench and I held out my hands to him as I sat down. He crouched in front of me and tried to smile my way, but I couldn’t make eye contact. I had to focus. The sound of the tape became the only sound in the locker room, accompanying the pounding in my ears that thumped in time with my rapidly beating heart.

  “We’re starting off tonight by welcoming a new fighter to the circuit,” the MC announced as I waited behind the screen. I was bouncing, stretching my neck, flicking my arms to keep the blood pumping. “Originating in boxing, with influences from ju-jitsu, weighing in at 205lbs, please welcome, from Geoff’s Gym, Curtiiiis Maaaasooon!”

  I cringed when he said my last name but recovered quickly and stepped out. Lights flashed from cameras surrounding me and cheers erupted as a heavy rock piece blasted from the speakers. I kept my eyes on the cage, not giving away the anxiety that threatened to steal my control from me. I could do it; I kept telling myself as I climbed the steps and stepped through the door and into the ring. I didn’t look anywhere as I kept my eyes down and waited for my opponent.

  “Up against Curtis tonight, let me see your hands. It’s The Cyclooone!”

  I didn’t look at the guy as his music played and he got in the ring. By the time my eyes met his, I was focused, so focused I wanted to lunge at him. I didn’t. We touched gloves and when the bell rang to start the match, I stayed still, waiting for him to make the first move. He swung for me, several times, but I ducked and weaved, keeping my eyes on him. I raised my hands, prepared to attempt to make a move, but he threw himself at me, wrapping one arm around my neck and rearing me back against the cage, he winded me when his knee hit my stomach and my head turned fuzzy.

  It was time.

  My fist connected with his kidney once, twice, three times, and he let go. If there was one thing I was grateful for in that moment, it was Geoff and his first lesson. Spot the weakness. I saw it, his guard was off and I smiled. He lunged at me again but an uppercut stopped him in his tracks and with a split-second decision made, the roundhouse kick knocked him to the canvas. I stood on guard waiting for him to get up, but when the ref started counting as Cyclone writhed on the floor, I felt it. The freedom. The choice was mine. The control was mine. The fight was mine to take. I got on the floor, wrapped my legs around him and pulled his arm. In seconds he was tapping and the bell rang. The ref nudged me and
I let go and stood up, dazed. As he grabbed my wrist, I looked at the guy on the floor, shaking his head in disbelief. I was just as shocked, but the feeling was incredible. I’d done it.

  “The winner of this match, by submission…Cut Throat Curtis!”

  The crowd exploded in adrenaline-fuelled excitement and began chanting my name, the lights blinded me. Tonight I had earned my name. My new name. Tonight I earned respect I could have only have imagined, and a place to call home.

  “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

  I turned around to see Derek, the most cheery scary bastard I’d ever seen in the doorway with my car keys in his hand, swinging around his index finger. He’d been trying to persuade me to celebrate my win with him since I’d gotten back to the locker room.

  Derek was the first person to accept me when I joined Geoff’s. He was always smiling, and on the right side of crazy. Standing at six feet six inches, he was almost as wide as he was tall, covered in ink from his neck down – his face was left clean because his mamma would kill him if he turned up to church on Sunday with the devil on his flesh. He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows and I almost feared what he had in mind. He’d just gone a full five rounds and he was still grinning like a schoolboy and jumping around like a spring chicken.

  “Can you stand still?” I asked, scrubbing my hair dry.

  “No. Are you coming or not?”

  He continued hopping, reached for my stuff and started shoving it in my bag.

  “Jesus.” I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and took my things off him. “What’s all the fuss about?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I shook my head, “I don’t know.”

  “Chicken?” He goaded, stopping me mid-hair scrape.

  I laughed. “People still say that?”

  “Some shit never gets old.”

  “Give me my keys.” He lifted them up as I reached for them.

  “We’re going…” He shook the keys so they jangled from the keychain. “Yes?”

  I thought about it for a second while I contemplated a stunt that would involve wall-scaling, pummel horse tricks over the coat racks and a flight through the air to get my keys from the BFG. If I didn’t go with Derek, I’d probably go home, sit in the dark and mope. I was done moping.

  “Sure, let’s go.”

  He grinned and dropped the keys into my hand.

  I pulled up on a backstreet behind some shops and parked the car. We got out and walked around the front to the street.

  “Wait ‘til you feel the rush,” Derek said, wiggling his eyebrows, a smile so wide I wondered if he really was crazy.

  “I said I was coming with you.” I shoved my hands in my pockets. “I didn’t say I was doing anything.”

  “We’ll see. I know you.” No. He didn’t. “You won't be able to resist.”

  He stopped outside a boarded up shop covered in graffiti, and knocked on the door.

  “Doesn’t look like it’s open,” I scoffed, secretly pleased.

  “This place is Kent’s best kept secret. Trust me, it’s open.”

  As soon as he said the words, the door opened. The man, kid, man – I don’t know – on the other side was tall and skinny, with spiked plugs through both ears, and covering his face until there was no visible bare skin. I took a double take, triple take, quadruple take.

  Wow.

  “Derek, good to see you.” He threw out a twiggy arm and shook Derek’s hand, then turned to me. “Who’s this?”

  “Cut Throat,” I answered for myself.

  “Cain.” He half-smiled. “You’re clean?”

  He turned my arm over and shoved my sleeve up.

  Having no idea what he was talking about, I answered, “Uh, yeah. I’m clean.”

  “A blank canvas,” he mused. “Nice. Come in.”

  We stepped inside and I stood between them as I followed behind Cain, down a narrow hallway until it opened up at the back.

  The walls were a blood red and I could smell chemicals – antiseptic, maybe – and some sort of dystopian music played in the background. It was how I imagined a sacrificial ceremony might go down, minus the spiritual dagger and people in hooded capes.

  “Beer?” Cain asked, breaking through the silence.

  I shook my head and Derek joined Cain, helping himself to a can of something. I stood still at the entrance; my palms were sweating and my knees were shaking so violently, I was sure the other two could hear them knocking. Why were there pictures of skulls, demons and dragons stuck on the walls?

  “Cut Throat?” My eyes met Cain’s at the mention of my name. “Wanna see what we do here?”

  Derek was nodding his head next to him and I knew he wanted to laugh. Hilarious. They knew I was scared out of my wits and the fuckers were enjoying it. I rolled my neck and squared my shoulders. I could fight them both off if they tried to kill me.

  “Sure.”

  “Come.” Cain tipped his head and led the way, out the back to another hallway with four doors, two on either side. How big was this place? Cain turned a handle and swung one of the doors open. Inside, centre stage, was a black leather chair that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office – nothing sinister there – and a rack; a metal rack hidden in the corner, covered in tools that looks like the product of a sadist’s dream come true. All I could see was metal and black.

  “Sit down, Cut Throat,” Cain said as Derek left, his departing laugh echoing around the tiny room and adjoining corridor.

  “What for?”

  “Just do it. Take off your jumper and sit on the chair.”

  “Fuck you,” I croaked, my voice thick with anxiety. “What for?”

  His face softened. I think, “Just trust me. I’m not going to kill you. The first time should be a surprise, to feel the full effect.”

  “I don’t want a surprise. I don’t want to feel the effects of anything.”

  “Just trust me, man.”

  “I don’t even know you!” My voice broke with panic, my lungs starved of oxygen as I exhaled with inevitable defeat. “Fine.”

  I pulled my sweater over my head and tossed it onto the end of the chair. I perched, just on the edge, to signal my compliance, but unwilling to give him the opportunity to pull a fast one. He just laughed. Cain and Derek must have been kindred spirits; they both laughed all the damn time. Was now the time to be laughing? No. Fuck no. I didn’t want to do this. I didn’t want to die. If Cain and Derek didn’t slit my throat, mutilate me, decapitate me and then dissect me and feed me to their dogs, Geoff would kill me for doing whatever it was they were about to make me do. It didn’t take a detective to know they were shady. Remember what I said about being done moping? I wasn’t. I would have chosen a lifetime of moping over this mental torture.

  “Ready?” Derek asked, announcing his return and carrying a spray bottle with him.

  “He’s nearly ready.” Cain turned to me. “Feet up, Cut Throat.”

  I stayed alert; I’d be ready if they tried anything, but I forced my breathing to calm and turned so I was lying on the chair.

  Cain pulled a stool out from underneath and took a seat next to me. He grabbed my wrist and turned it, exposing the inside of my forearm. He ran his hand down my skin and I flinched, my mind filling with the image of being stabbed with a needle. I didn’t do drugs, and didn’t want to. I didn’t want to put anything in my body that wasn’t supposed to be there. I didn’t want to lose control of my mind. I couldn’t.

  Derek handed Cain the spray bottle and some blue tissue. That’s when I couldn’t take any more. I turned my head away and threw my free arm over my eyes.

  Please, please, please don’t hurt me.

  All I could see was darkness, all I could hear was the blood pounding in my ears. All I could feel was the spray of whatever was in the bottle hit my skin, the rough swipe of the tissue and then something smooth pressed flat, down the length of my inner forearm. It was coming. There was no way out. I was about to be shocked. I was about to feel
the full effect of whatever they had planned. I didn’t want it.

  I jumped as something sharp hit my skin. The panicked gasp sucked oxygen into my burning lungs. I heard a loud buzzing and opened my eyes as Cain held a little gun to my arm and I saw the beginning of the letter ‘C’, in black ink, absorb into my skin.

  I stared as the ink spread, covering the purple template until the block-cursive letter was complete.

  It felt…good.

  It was painful; a numb, tingling pain that managed to hurt and fill me with a strange feeling of pleasure that spread to my mind. I felt my face break into a smile. Derek and Cain eyed me, satisfied by my reaction.

  “See what I mean?” Cain said, dipping the tattoo gun in more ink.

  “Keep going,” I growled, my mind and body on some sort of high.

  It felt amazing. Better than any pain I’d ever felt from physical exertion; better than any mental pain I’d punished myself with.

  I didn’t say anything while they worked, Cain branding my skin, Derek standing on hand to wipe away the excess ink and blood.

  When they’d finished, we all sat back to look at what Cain had done. ‘Cut Throat’ was written vertically down my arm, forever marking me with my new identity.

  “What do you think?” Derek asked, checking my face for the rage that would see me kicking both of their asses.

  I sighed in relief, “I thought you were going to kill me.”

  I laughed at my ridiculous confession, cursing myself for admitting it out loud.

  “Kill you?” They stared at me shocked.

  “Or drug me.”

  “Someone has got an active imagination.”

  I sat up as Derek dressed my new artwork, wrapping one arm in plastic wrap. Cain handed me a beer and I finally relaxed enough to drink it. I took a huge calming mouthful, feeling the after effects of adrenaline wear off, and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Cain and Derek were proud of themselves and impressed with me, like I’d passed some sort of initiation. I sat forward and held my inked arm out to them.