Knock out
Thank you very much, @mariannewest!
He had just taken a shower; his skin was wet and oily, reddened here, bruised over there. He had a small cut on the left cheekbone. The towel still wrapped around the pelvis.
He was going to put on his boxers when received the news: I'm going to give birth.
Nine months ago, he knew the two news with absolute felicity, despite the circumstances in the country. How much he had wanted that fight and almost was becoming, finally, reality. And his wife pregnant.
He was amused and proud of saying to his wife and Margot, the illusioned grandmother: if we have a boy, he will be a boxer, like me; if it's a girl, too!
Twins! Man, he didn't expect that gift.
In the disgusting corner of his cell, hand-to-hand with a bunch of ordinary prisoners, some of them very dangerous, he is not even the shadow of what he was. He threw the towel. The beating that this life has given him has been much worse, unbearably more severe than those he received or tipped in the ring. Alone in his corner, the soul numb, his existence broken and miserable, imagining again and again how his babies' death was, chopped by flies, wormed.
When that misfortune happened, he shouted his pain through the corridors of the Hospital, and... We have to shut up that crazy man.
I think they are following me. They kidnapped him and sank him in a prison. Without guilt, without charges, without judicial process, without being able to see his mother or his wife again; without Justice. Tuberculosis finished throwing him to the background of the boxing ring. Yesterday he died.
Eighteen years later, Mr. Y. is on the ropes, shitting in his boxers.
(SP version)
Acababa de tomar una ducha, tenía la piel húmeda pero aceitosa, enrojecida por aquí, amoratada más allá. Un pequeño corte en el pómulo izquierdo. La toalla aún alrededor de la pelvis.
Iba a ponerse su boxer cuando llegó la noticia: Voy a parir.
Hace nueve meses, recibió esas dos buenas nuevas con absoluta felicidad, pese a las circunstancias del país. Lo mucho que había deseado esa pelea, y estaba a punto de convertirse, por fin, en realidad. Y su esposa esperando.
Se divertía y enorgullecía diciéndole a su mujer y a Margot, la ilusionada abuela: si tenemos un niño, será boxeador, como yo; si es una niña, ¡también!
¡Gemelos! Hombre, ese regalo sí que no lo esperaba.
En el rincón asqueroso de su celda, cuerpo a cuerpo con un exceso de presos comunes, algunos de ellos muy peligrosos, no es ni la sombra de lo que fue. Tiró la toalla. La golpiza que le ha dado esta vida ha sido mucho peor, insoportablemente más severa, de las que recibió o propinó en el ring. Solo en su esquina, entumecida el alma, rota y desgraciada su existencia, imaginando una y otra vez cómo fue la muerte de sus bebés, picados de moscas, agusanados.
Gritó su dolor por los pasillos del Hospital, y... Hay que callar a ese loco.
Creo que están siguiéndome. Lo secuestraron y lo hundieron en un penal. Sin culpa, sin cargos, sin proceso judicial, sin poder volver a ver ni a su madre ni a su esposa.; sin Justicia. La tuberculosis terminó de tirarlo a la lona. Ayer murió.
Dieciocho años después, el Sr. Y. está contra las cuerdas, cagándose en su boxer.
¡Bienvenido todo apoyo!
Welcome all your support!
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I'm very grateful!
Wow. This is indeed a story. Feel sorry for him though....
Enjoyed reading this one :)
Yes... Thanks a lot. It's great you enjoyed it.
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¡Les estoy muy agradecida! Felicito su gran labor.