by K J Ellis
“The bad news is; besides the obvious cuts and bruises, your scans show you have sustained a substantial number of injuries, the main ones being concussion from the blow to your head—which may cause severe headaches and dizzy spells. This can be easily managed, though.” He pauses so we can all take in what he’s telling us.
“He can’t remember anything that happened since the fight. Is that normal, doc?”
“Yes, this is typical with the type of concussion you sustained. It will soon fade and in most cases, memories return in due course. They may come back in flashes or even in a flood, but rest assured they will return. Going back to your injuries, you also have what we call 'Boxer's fracture' which is damage to the fourth and fifth metacarpals in your right hand from high force placed through these particular bones whilst the fist is clenched—hence the name of the injury. It's not uncommon for professional boxers like yourself. My main concern, however, is the results of your spinal injury scan. It shows clear signs of evidential damage to the soft tissue there, which can sometimes cause paralysation.”
The room falls eerie silent.
I’m trying to give my brain time to catch up with what the doctor has just said, thinking that I could have quite possibly heard him wrong. When my eyes scan the bodies surrounding my hospital bed and I see the shocked and stunned faces looking back at me, I know I heard him right.
“Are you saying I could be paralysed?” That’s it: my career is over. I can't take all this shit; I really need to punch something or someone. I don't necessarily care who.
“No, not at all. That’s the worst-case scenario, but not the case with you. So, your neck sits on a ball type pivot, and just by tweaking your neck in the wrong way with force can cause massive damage to the soft tissue of the spine. Luckily for you and your prestigious physicality, you only suffered from whiplash type symptoms. The ricochet, and the way you must have hit the mat, affected the muscular and facet joints at the spine, which can become irritated and pain can arise from this. So, you could also experience some pain in your lower back, too, if you haven’t done so already.”
I'm trying to digest everything he's just thrown at me, but if I'm honest I zoned out after he said paralysation, so I'm hoping the others have listened to him on my behalf.
“That's the bad news. The good news is that with physiotherapy, you should make a full recovery. It'll most definitely take some time, Isaak, but with the right treatment and rest, you'll be yourself again, I have no doubt. When you leave here, we will give you crutches to use as and when you need them, but just by looking at you now, I can see that being a problem with you. They need to be used at least for a couple of days Mr Brookes. I contacted one of the best physiotherapists in London just a short while ago; they are aware and will be expecting you when you’re ready.” He hands a card over to Kenny. “I’m sorry it wasn’t the news you were hoping for. The nurse will be in shortly with some medication to help you with the pain. Once she’s been in to see you, you are free to leave, but please take it easy.” With a look of sympathy on his face, he says his goodbyes and leaves.
The room is so quiet you could hear a pin drop and it would sound like a bomb was going off. Clearly everyone is just as shocked as me to hear the news. I've never been hospitalized after a fight. Shit, I've never been knocked out before. It's a first for me, and I don't like it. Not only will I be helpless and unable to do the most normal and simplest of chores for myself, I'll also be out of the gym and ring, too. For how long, God only knows. Alexander is going to pay for this. One way or another, he'll pay.
“How do you feel after hearing all that, Isaak?”
I turn to find Vinny standing right beside me. I don't know how to answer him. I haven't a clue how I feel. If I'm honest, I don't feel anything, which is ridiculous because I'm in that much pain and have been suffering with it all since the minute I woke up this morning.
“I'm not sure how I'm feeling. Part of me feels murderous because of the reason and person who put me here in the first place; the other part of me thinks I'll never be able to fight again, and that if I do, I'll never be the same fighter as I was before,” I tell him honestly.
“Hey, you listen to me. You'll get through this: you're stronger than you know, and when you put your mind to something, you always succeed. How do you think you became a champion in the first place? It wasn't any of our doing. It was your strength and determination that did it. It was all on you, Isaak. It may have been us training you, but when it comes down to it, it's just you in that ring with your opponent. Believe me when I say, we'll get your title and belts back,” Vin tells me, placing the palm of his hand on my shoulder, ever so gently so he doesn't cause me any discomfort or pain. I appreciate him trying to make me feel better; I don't have the heart to tell him that it's not working.
“First things first, I’ll find out who this physiotherapist is and what the company is called, and we'll take it from there,” Kenny announces as he pulls his phone out from his trouser pocket. Back to business already for him…
“I want that bastard, Kenny. I want that rematch.” I know the clause in the contract: myself and the team went over it until we were all blue in face. It states and allows an automatic rematch and there’s nothing Alexander Jenkins can do about it. I will be Champion again.
“I'll start making a few calls and get the ball rolling.” He turns and makes his way towards the door, phone already at his ear before he's even disappeared through the damn thing.
“One step at a time, yeah, Isaak?” Bruce finally speaks. I’d almost forgotten he was there. When I finally get a look at him, I notice the expression on his face: pure guilt.
“Bruce, it's not your fault I'm lying here, so you can stop blaming yourself. I can see it's eating away at you. You have nothing to feel guilty about, so just stop. Trust me, he's going to pay for it. He's not the only one who can fight dirty.” I look up at Vin and Bruce. I'm not sure if it's fear or worry marking both their features. Their faces are twisted up like they’re sucking on sour lemons, but I couldn't care less. “Once I'm fully fit of course,” I add, unsure if it’s for myself or them.
Alexander Jenkins is going to wish he never met me, let alone have stepped into the ring with me. I may be a couch potato at the minute, but give me time and I'll be bigger, stronger, and smarter than the last time he set his eyes on me.
I'll make him pay for this if it's the last thing I do.
Chapter Two
Remme
It's Monday morning. The sun is shining and beating down on my thankfully-slowly-starting-to-tan skin. When I say my skin is milk bottle white, I’m not exaggerating. My legs are extremely pale, hence never normally having them out on show, which in turn contributes to them being so pale in the first place. I can't win really, can I?
We haven't had weather like this since God knows when. In fact, I can't remember it was that long ago. Typical British weather is normally cold, windy, or pissing it down with rain.
It's a shame I'm not going to see much of it as I'll be stuck in a building, sweating my arse off with clients all day. Thank God I remembered to put a spare change of clothes in my bag, just in case.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I love my job. I worked my butt off to get to where I am, and I wouldn't give it up for anything. I'm twenty-four and one of the youngest employees at my company. It took me six years to become a physiotherapist, six years to get my A’ Levels and a higher degree in biological science and physical education. The physical side I found was the easiest. I studied the human body inside out, and I worked out three or four times a week myself. Putting in all the hard work was totally worth it.
Leaving the burning hot sun outside, I make my way indoors, walking past the reception desk that sits pretty in the centre of the room but back against the wall directly in front of you as you walk in. I throw a wave over to Charlotte, who's sitting behind the desk clicking away on the computer keyboard.
“Morning, Charlotte.
Can you believe the weather? And we're stuck inside all day,” I say as I reach the station she's working at.
“I know, don't even get me started. I bet you a tenner it’s raining at the weekend.” She smiles at me as she fans her face with a booklet.
“You’re on. I’ll take that bet.” I laugh.
Charlotte has worked on reception for the past eighteen months. We’d just clicked from the start and quickly became really close friends. She has a great sense of humour, is witty and very easy to talk to. It's an added bonus that we have a lot in common.
“Go before you're late.” She shoos me away with her hands flapping about in the air in front of her.
“Okay, okay. I'm going.” Stopping I turn around again. “Oh, are you still coming to mine after work?” I laugh back at her over my shoulder as I head over to the lifts that will take me up to my office.
“Yes, definitely.” Nodding my head, I carry on the way I was going.
Dropping my bag down on the floor behind my desk, I pull the chair out and sit, enjoying the quietness before my schedule starts. I have a new female client coming in to see me about continuous back pains and then another who is suffering from an ankle injury from playing professional football. Other than that, my diary is pretty much clear this afternoon, which will give me time to catch up on some paperwork and get some much-needed filing done.
There's a knock on my office door, and lifting my head, I see it's Rachel, the head of my department.
“Hey Rachel, what's up?” Normally if she wants one of us, she sends for us to go to her office. I'm a tad nervous, I'm not going to lie. Have I done something wrong? I start thinking about what it could possibly be, but I come up empty.
“Morning. Do you have the final paperwork for Mr Turner? I just need to send out the final invoice,” she asks politely.
“Mr Turner? Sorry, I thought I gave the file to Melvyn to pass over to you on Friday,” I say, slightly confused, but I get up to check my filing cabinet in case it’s still in there.
Funnily enough, there’s Mr Turner’s file but sitting on top, not in the right place. Okay, that’s weird. I swear I gave it to Melvyn.
Shaking my head and thinking nothing of it, I grab the folder and push the drawer closed with my hip.
“I’m so sorry Rachel, I must have forgotten.” I shrug my shoulders as I have no explanation for it and walk back across my office to where she’s standing. “Here you go.” I hand her the file, all the while hoping I haven’t set her back in doing her job.
“It’s no problem at all, honestly. I know how busy you get on a Friday. Plus, there’s not much I could have done over the weekend anyway.” She takes the folder from my grasp and turns to leave my office. “Have a good day, Remme.” She smiles at me and then she’s gone.
As she moves out of view, I catch Melvyn walking in the opposite direction. “Hey, Melvyn. You got a second?” I shout as I make my way over to the door and swing my head around.
“Erm, yeah, make it quick. I have a client waiting for me in the gym. What’s up?”
“The file I gave you Friday… Did you not give it to Rachel?” I question with caution as I know Melvyn can be a funny twat sometimes, and that's putting it mildly.
“Oh, erm, no. Sorry, I completely forgot, so I put it back in your filing unit. I think you were with your last client at the time. I didn't see you again on Friday to tell you.” He shrugs “I’ve gotta go, Remme. Sorry,” he adds.
“No, it’s okay. Thanks.” Now that’s all cleared up, I can start to get some actual work done.
The phone on my desk starts to ring. I look at the dock and see the call has been transferred to me from Rachel. I pick up.
“Hello, Remme Rivers,” I greet the caller.
A gentleman's voice comes through the speaker—a voice I recognise well. “Hi Remme, Rachel has passed me straight to you so we can cut out the middleman so to speak.”
“Hi Dr. Fletcher. How can I help you?”
“I have a patient that came in on Saturday and he has endured some injuries—injuries, I think you yourself could help him with,” he explains, getting straight to the point, just as he always does and just the way I like it.
“Okay, sure. What kind of patient is he? What are we looking at, Doc?”
“Well, actually, he’s a professional boxer, which is why I called your office—patient confidentiality and all that. I’m sure he won’t want the press getting a hold of his…situation shall we say.”
“Yes, I completely understand. Can you send over all the usual documents for me, and I’ll definitely take a look at it.”
“Yes of course. I’ll give the patient all the information he’ll need to contact you. Thank you, Remme.”
“No problem, take care.” With that I hang up the phone.
I’ve never had a professional boxer as a client before. This is good for me: it will look fantastic on my portfolio.
As much as I shouldn’t jump to conclusions about potential patients, I can’t help but wonder what he’s like… Probably full of himself and really self-assured—an over-confident, obnoxious prick.
Glancing up at the clock on the far wall, I call time with my first client of the afternoon and head back over to my office so I can book in another appointment for them.
Saying my farewells, I look back at my diary for the coming weeks: they’re getting extremely full already—just the way I like it.
The rest of the day goes by fairly quickly. I've managed to get up to date with all my paperwork, and it’s finally set up in alphabetical order so I can find my clients’ folders without making my office look like a bomb site. Dr Fletcher has also got the emails sent over to me in regard to the patient that he’s referred over to us. As I have a little free time before I finish for the day, I make a start on Mr Brookes work plan and fitness schedule. I'm chuffed to pieces with myself, and when I've finished up with most of it, it's time for me to clock off work and go home.
I switch everything off and pack up my belongings, meeting up with Charlotte in the lobby briefly before we both head to our own cars, arriving at my apartment no more than thirty minutes lately. Walking in, I throw my keys in the bowl on the unit, hang my bag on the peg that's attached to the wall and kick off my shoes, Charlotte hot my heels.
Thankfully Spencer, my flatmate, has thought ahead and ordered food as soon as he got home, which he is currently plating up for the three of us. Charlotte drags the cutlery out of the draw as I pour us all a small glass of wine each. Heading into the living room we all get comfy and tuck into the pizza.
“Please, for the love of God, can you stop making those noises. They’re not what I wanna hear. Now I know what you sound like when you’ve reached your peak. If you know what I mean.”
Charlotte laughs, and I almost choke on my pizza crust.
“Spence...Jesus. You trying to kill me off or something? And FYI, that is not what I sound like when I’m...well, you know.” I’m suddenly getting embarrassed, which is stupid. Talking to Spencer is as easy as talking to a woman. Charlotte has grown custom to his delicate way with words, but not when he starts to make comments about my sex life and what sounds I may or may not make.
“Whatever you say, sister.”
“Leave the poor girl alone, Spence. Just because you’re a tart doesn’t mean the rest of us are,” Charlotte says, rescuing me and coming to my defence.
The rest of the evening goes by quickly. We eat our food and enjoy the wine before calling it a night. Charlotte leaves around nine pm. It’s a work night, and I know I need my beauty sleep as much as the next person does.
I say goodnight to Spencer as I head for my room, strip out of my work clothes, and rid my face of today’s make-up before throwing myself under the cover.
No sooner does my head hit the pillow, I’m out like a light.
Chapter Three
Isaak
It’s Wednesday morning—or at least I think it is
—and the light drifting in through the gap in the curtains is almost blinding. With one eye partly open and the other firmly shut, I can just about make out the sun rising over the horizon. Yet again, I’ve had another shit night of restlessness. I just can’t seem to get comfortable no matter how I lie. I was tossing and turning like a man possessed. Don’t even get me started on the antibiotics I’m still having to pop like skittles. I swear to God they’ve stopped working all together.
It's been a few days since I was discharged from the hospital with a bag full of drugs to help with all my aches and pains and those stupid crutches. I was told to take it easy and to see the physiotherapist they had referred me to as soon as possible.
I couldn’t fucking wait to get out of there. I may have only been in a short amount of time, but I’d had enough. I’d been sick of the food—so bland it tasted like cardboard—and looking at the same grey-coloured walls had started to send me loopy. I’d been at breaking point and had been starting to lose my sanity.
Normally, whenever I feel like that, I head to the gym and work out my frustrations in the ring with a sparring partner or Owen, or by punching the shit out of a bag, but I haven’t been able to fucking do that either. I'm at a loss with myself.
Coming home has eased some of that anxious feeling, but it still lingers in the background.
The headaches and dizzy spells are still occurring. The doctor hadn’t been kidding about them: they’re unpleasant and knock me sick to the point I don’t know whether I’m coming or going. It's lucky I've spent most of my time in bed or lying down on the sofa, otherwise I'd have knocked myself out again by falling over flat on my Goddamn face.
If I ever thought this was going to be an easy recovery, I’d have been very much mistaken.
Lying in bed is the fucking worst. Having nothing to do but feel sorry for myself and come up with different ways to get my own back on Alexander is starting to become unhealthy. If it weren’t for Owen and the team I have to train with, I would no doubt be in a padded cell for going stir crazy. I've hardly eaten anything, mainly because I physically haven’t had the energy to cook for myself.