by Keyes, Janae
The Belgian Beast
Janae Keyes
Edited by
Deliaria Nicole Davis
To the country I’ve grown to love since 2011.
Vive la Belgique, Je t’aime.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Janae Keyes
Chapter One
Marc
The roar of the crowd filled each and every crevice of my body.
The exhilaration pumped through my veins, my name on the lips of every single person in the room. The on-going chants surrounding the octagon stimulated the resounding thud of my heart through my ears.
“Bel-gian Beast! Bel-gian Beast!” They droned as a collective unit, egging me on, preparing me for what was to come.
Nowhere—no one—had kept me as grounded as the cage had. This was home. I’d been told the love and sweetness of a good woman was the only high which could top this, but in my experience, there was no such thing as a woman who could stop my heart with a single glance.
Only the octagon could give me pause and it would always be that way.
The cheers grew louder until an eerie, haunting silence filled me, and pulled me away from the present.
“And you think you're a man? A scared bitch. Yeah, that's you, just a scared little bitch like your mother.”
I was thrown violently back into the origins of my story. It was the voice of my dead father, drunk as fuck like always, echoing through my head. He always seemed to be there when I fought. The ferocity of those moments of my past was what brought me to my present, and I could never ignore it. It was my fuel. He pushed me to the edge, I could never go back.
His slurred as shit words were always in my head. His boastfulness pulsed through his words spoken in perfect Flemish Dutch. My father was proud of his Flemish origins and made sure everyone knew it. Hell, he had ‘Vlaanderen’ tattooed on his arm with the lion right under it proudly representing his region.
When I finally stood up to him, he’d insulted my masculinity as if that was a worry of mine.
“Come on. Hit me. Do you really think you can hurt me, little punk?”
“Stop! Please! Don’t hurt Marc. I’m begging you.” The voice of my angelic mother cut through his insults, begging him to stop, but she was too late. Years of watching him abuse her and suffering abuse at his hands had led to that infinitely defining moment.
“Did you hear that, Marc? Your slut mom is trying to save your little ass. Come on, Marc, be a fucking man and hit me!”
The bell rang through my senses and the chants of my surroundings returned. The scent of blood and sweat filled my nostrils. That smell was my comfort.
The cheers and whistles, along with the resounding of my infamous nickname, the Belgian Beast, permeated the room as I held my position against my opponent in the cage, and I hit him the same way my father had demanded I hit him. My fist slamming into his face and blood sputtering from his mouth, spraying across my pale arms, leaving them peppered in crimson red.
The room fell into utter chaos and excitement at each punch I laid into the guy who dared fight me. This guy wasn’t like me, he hadn’t had to kick his dad’s ass at the age of fifteen. This guy didn’t have to take up fighting to make a living before he was old enough to drive a fucking car. This guy wasn’t the Belgian Beast, but I sure as fuck was.
I would give it to him, he had some fight in him and with each jab and kick I laid into him, he’d stumble but came back at me eager to show the world someone could tame the beast.
That wasn’t the case. Nobody could tame the beast. In only a moment, he was down. I was on top of him, my fists laying fury to his face until I saw his eyes rolled back in his head and bright red blood ooze from his mouth.
As the ref called the fight, I rose, victorious as help was ushered in for the unconscious guy on the ground. I’d done my job and that’s what mattered to me. I put up the good fight through skills I’d learned since I was a kid.
I remained undefeated.
“And the winner is, the Belgian Beast!” The announcer echoed through the auditorium and the crowd went insane, chanting as the ref lifted my arm into the air to claim my victory.
Another fight down.
At this point, after years of fighting, they all seemed to blend, except for the few standouts. This was another day at the office. I made my living by the fight and would do it until I couldn’t anymore. It was what I knew. It gave me what I needed. It was my way of working through the frustrations of my life and providing for those I cared about.
Leaving the octagon behind, I was patted on the back by my trainer and manager, Jean. The short yet feisty gray-haired man took me under his wing when I was only a kid and he made me into the beast I was. He harnessed the fight I had in me and taught me how to use it.
“Excellent!” He cheered proudly as he continued to slap my bare, sweaty back proudly.
“Get my pay,” I grunted in demand as I left the chaos of the arena and found the solace of the locker room.
After a fight, I was left on a adrenaline rush that raced through my veins and kept my heart pounding in my chest. Entering the locker room, I let out a loud roar which echoed off the beaten up metal lockers and reverberated throughout the room.
There were guys getting patched up and showering after their own fights. They all paused at my loud entrance. A simple nod of congratulations was given by another fighter and I nodded back. I wasn’t one for small talk. I came and did what I had to do. I didn’t fuck around. I’d made a few connections in my world, but I hadn’t sought them, they found me.
It wasn’t until I was older I found myself appreciating my father for being a piece of shit. By this time, he was already dead after crashing his car while drunk on the Brussels Ring. I was glad as fuck he was dead. Nobody needed him around. The man beat the shit out of my mother every night with myself and my sister watching. He’d beat us too sometimes when he was drunk enough. The worst nights were when he’d gambled everything away. Our stomachs were empty and then he’d lay into us over his shortcomings. Shit bastard.
“Marc, ton argent,” Jean announced in French, as he pulled me out of my fog. He handed over a thick envelope.
I sized it up and peeked inside. Ten-thousand Euros in cash. I knew exactly how much it was simply based on the weight in my hands.
“You fought good. Not your best but he wasn’t up for your full force anyway.”
I shrugged.
Jean shook his head at my usual reaction.
After a fight, I found myself living in a fog of memories. Dad’s voice practically pulled them to the forefront of my mind. They were things I’d rather forget.
Standing abruptly, I had to fight through the fog and into the clarity I’d won another fight and was covered in sweat and blood splatter. With a grunt, I shoved myself past him and the other fighters standing around until I reached the showers.
The stink of men filled the thick, steamy air as I strolled to a shower-head and twisted the metal knob to turn the water on. Steaming hot spray immediately came forth and I immersed my body in it. I washed it all away, from the words of my demented father to the blood of my opponent. All of it washed down the drain as the scorching wat
er trickled over my bald head and heated body.
When I finished my shower, I stepped into the locker room with a towel around my waist. There were fewer guys standing around now as the fights had finished for the night. For now, it was only me, a few stragglers, and Jean who waited on the bench near my belongings as he usually did.
Jean was a good guy. One of the few good guys around and I considered him more than my coach and manager, he was a father-figure. I was barely fifteen when I met him, my eyes peering into a Mixed Martial Arts gym in awe of what the guys were doing. Jean was the owner of the gym and saw this scrawny kid standing outside. He invited me in, and my training began.
“Ça va?” He asked with genuine concern. The man knew the demons which haunted me, but never pushed me to reveal them. It was all in my own time.
“Ça va,” I answered as I wasn’t in the mood to talk. I wasn’t much of a talker anyway. I kept my issues and emotions inside. I allowed them to battle in my mind and in my heart without spilling them out unless I really needed to. Jean understood this and let me be.
As Jean left a slap on my back, I glanced up at the man who gave me a proud beaming grin. Slowly a smile crept onto my lips as well. I knew I did good and it was nice to have that one person who believed in me from the first moment. The man pushed me hard and I intended to continue to make him proud.
“What are your plans for the night?” Jean asked as I pulled my shirt over my head.
“Going to see my sister and her kids. Taking them some food,” I told him while I finished dressing.
“How is Sophie?” He asked as I reached my hand into my envelope and pulled out a couple of thousand euros and handed it over to him as I did after every fight.
I shrugged at his answer.
Sophie was all over the place and I never really knew how she was doing from one day to the next.
“Tell her I say, hello.”
“I will.” Standing tall, I threw my bag over my shoulder and gave him his own slap on the back. “See you,” I muttered to my old friend as I picked up my silver and black motorcycle helmet from the bench.
“Bonsoir. We’ll talk about your next fight at the gym,” he noted.
I nodded simply and walked out of the locker room.
Once out in the cool air, I was hit with screams and cheers from those who waited at the back door in hopes of getting a photo with me or an autograph. I grunted in frustration. I didn’t do autographs after fights. After a fight I was still riding this rage filled high and couldn’t dare socialize with fans. I’d rather do it at another time. It wasn’t that I wasn’t approachable, because I could be, but after a fight it was a no go.
All in all, I didn’t fight for the fame and the glory, I fought because it kept my family afloat and allowed me an outlet for my rage. Fans came with the territory. I loved that people enjoyed me and what I’d worked hard for.
Ignoring the flashes of camera phones and my nickname being shouted. I continued onward toward the street where my motorcycle was parked and waiting for me. I secured my bag in one of the saddle compartments and placed my helmet on my head. My helmet did help muffle out the noise and calmed the intensifying anxiety I fought with daily.
Once on my bike and in gear, I zipped down the street away from the crowd and into my element. The streets of Brussels blurred past as I drove toward my first destination with the wind whipping past me and my quickening heartbeat slowing. The tenseness in my jaw released and calm began to wash over me, but I knew my calm wouldn’t last long. It was a yo-yo of intense senses that kept me entrapped.
It wasn’t long before I found myself in one of those neighborhoods most tended to avoid, especially in more recent years. Molenbeek didn’t have the best reputation of all the cities that made up the capital region. The mostly Moroccan populated neighborhood had a flavor right out of the streets of Morocco itself. I quite liked it in a way, but the rampant crime made me fear for my little sister who called the place home.
I pulled up to an open Delhaize. Luckily, I had a few minutes before the store was supposed to close. Parking my bike, I secured it to a pole, eyeing the men who stood around loitering and smoking cigarettes in the shadows. Lucky for me, I could easily kick their asses and I’m sure my tall, muscular body made me the least desirable victim.
“Bonsoir,” my voice was deep and commanding as I passed them and trotted into the automatic doors of the store. I could barely hear their muttered greetings as the door closed behind me.
Taking a small hand basket, I made my way quickly through the store. I grabbed the essentials with a few other items, including a few chocolate bars. I paid and went outside. One of the men gave me a nod as I passed them once more. I didn’t return to my bike, but instead began up the street with the bag of groceries in hand.
The late summer night wasn’t warm, but also wasn’t as cold as most nights usually were in Belgium. Savoring the last few nights of summer, the neighborhood was filled with life even at the late hour. Kids were out riding bikes and drawing on the sidewalks, while adults stood around chatting and having a beer.
My sister’s building had a few of her neighbors on the front porch. They all greeted me warmly as they did when I arrived for a visit. As usual, when I stepped inside, there was a notice the elevator was down, so I took the stairs.
The stairwell was dimly lit, and the lights flickered as I scaled the stone stairs up to the heavy fire door of the third floor. Pushing the door open, I stepped into a narrow hallway. In the hall I could hear televisions blaring, ethnic music playing, couples fighting, and children playing. I walked toward the sounds of children playing through the last door in the hall, apartment 4C.
I knocked hard with the hope of breaking over the loud screaming of the children and moments later was rewarded with the door swinging open. A thin tanned man stood in the doorway.
“Shalom, brother,” I greeted the guy who’d been my sister’s on and off boyfriend for years. Basir was Moroccan and had begun dating my sister when they were in secondary school. Their turbulent relationship had lasted nearly ten years and spawned two children.
“Marc, mon frère, ça va?” He allowed me into the tiny apartment my sister’d managed to get, but I usually paid the rent for.
“Ça va, et toi?” I asked over the loud children who continued to play and enjoy one another.
“Okay,” he answered dimly as he rubbed his hand over the back of his head and sighed. It was easy to notice someone was missing from this picture, my sister, Sophie.
“Sophie has gone again, hasn’t she?” I already knew the answer. “How long?”
“A few days now,” he told me as we stepped into the living room and the kids peered up from their game to see who’d entered their home. I saw the eagerness in hopes it was their mother. There was disappointment, but they gave me excited grins as they bounded in my direction.
The oldest at three, Najah, leapt into my arms and snuggled against my chest. The little dark-haired girl was almost the spitting image of my sister with a slight ethnic flare from having a North African father. The little boy who trailed behind her was only a year and a half and looked more like his father, except he had bounding blond curls on top of his head.
“Oncle Marc,” Najah cheered happily.
“Onc Marc-Marc,” the little one, Kamil, attempted to copy.
I bent and pulled him into my arms in a tight hug as well.
Sophie and I were both damaged from our childhood but went about healing in different ways. I poured my anger, rage, and post-traumatic stress into the octagon. Sophie, on the other hand, took after our father. She began drinking young and it didn’t take long for her to pick up the gambling. On occasion, she would disappear for days at a time when she fell down the rabbit hole. Luckily Basir was a good dad and did what he could to keep consistent in the kid's lives. Our mother and I also did our parts.
“I brought you something,” I reached into the grocery bag and produced the candy bars I’d gotten from t
he store.
“Oh, merci,” Najah cheered as she grabbed her Kinder bar from my hands and began to tear open the wrapping to get to the goodness inside.
Always following the lead of his big sister, Kamil took the other bar but struggled to open it. “Ci, ci.”
Beaming at the little boy, I helped open his bar before he tore into the chocolate. I allowed the kids off my lap and they both took their chocolates with them and sat in front of the television. I turned back to Basir who gave me a weak smile.
The man was only in his early twenties already sprouting gray hairs and had bags under his eyes. He worked two full-time jobs and a few other part-time and odd jobs to do what he could for my sister and his children.
“I’ll have to take the children to your mother. I’ve missed work,” Basir explained and I completely understood. He had to do what was best even in my sister’s absence.
“I brought a few things for the house,” I handed over the grocery bag to my brother-in-law who gave me a weak smile of thanks. I’d always make sure they were taken care of and had a roof over their heads. It wasn’t completely my sister’s fault. I grew up in that shithole too. I only hoped she could fight her demons hard enough to get past where she was.
* * *
After biding my sister’s boyfriend and children goodbye, I returned to Delhaize where I’d left my motorbike. Even though I’d chained it purposely to a pole, it was gone. The store had closed and there was nobody around.
“Fuck,” I grunted angrily as I balled my fists. Luckily, nothing I’d left with my bag was of much importance. My gym bag only held my soiled clothes and nothing more. I’d had a bike stolen before.