I bite the inside of my cheek, suddenly wishing I’d just kept my mouth shut.
7
Anton
Fuck, I don’t need her pity.
I yank the shirt over my head, toss it in the corner, and strip out of my jeans like they’re the problem. They’re not.
It’s her voice. That soft, apologetic shit.
“I’m… sorry.”
Like I’m something to be sorry for.
Like I was a kid again. Just a kid with nothing but loss stitched into his bones.
I change into track pants, jaw tight. The floor’s still warm from where we ate. Still smells of soy sauce and sweat.
I cross to the bench. Grab the tape. Start wrapping slowly. I need a sweat. I need silence.
I need my fucking head back.
Papa used to say a man only cries once:when he’s born.
After that? You shut up and bleed quietly.
Not because he was cruel. Because no one came for us.
And no one ever would.
Pity was for boys who had someone to call.I didn’t.
Mama was already in the ground. Papa was busy trying not to join her.
And me?
I was just the warm body left over. Easy to miss. Easier to use.
So I learned early:if someone pities you, it’s because they think you’ve already lost.
And I don’t fucking lose.
I roll my wrist and pull the wrap tight. One loop, two. The bones in my hand crack like knuckles biting each other.
Good.
Behind me, I hear movement—shoes on concrete. Dima’s gait, slow and heavy. Mary’s lighter. Quieter. But I hear her.
She hesitates at the door.
I don’t turn around. But I feel her watching me.
She thinks I didn’t notice the way she looked at me after I told her who I was. What I did. Who I killed.
Her expression went soft. Too soft. Like she didn’t know if she should hug me or run.
Don’t hug me.
