Jersey Six(2)
He couldn’t hide his grin nor could he fully grin because his body was nothing more than a heap of stubborn scar tissue and bones.
“You wouldn’t believe how many injured people get dropped off at the ER entrance or even the fire station. Gunshot wounds, stabbings, burn victims … we see it all too often, like taking an animal out in the middle of nowhere and just leaving it. A cruel act, but not entirely inhumane. Clearly these ‘Good Samaritans’ don’t want the victim to die, but they also don’t want to be questioned for many reasons that might not have anything to do with the victim.”
He nodded, eyes squinted.
“I’ll be right back. I’m going to see who’s available to meet with you to discuss further care, rehabilitation, finances, and so on. Okay?”
The nameless man swallowed hard and nodded slowly.
When Faith disappeared, his hands started to shake, and his pulse took off like it needed to cross a distant finish line. Her words jumbled in his mind, and her smile and that laugh he loved replayed on repeat, but it was no longer cute and endearing. It mocked and berated him. Faith’s eyes lost their sparkle, rolling in annoyance that she had to stare at his wretched face all day and pretend that he had a family who would be looking for him. Paranoia attacked him.
Warm.
Sweaty.
Dizzy.
Nauseous.
He needed out of there before anything bad happened. Sliding off the bed onto wobbly legs, he pinched his eyes shut to silence the voices. They were louder than before—screaming at him to get out. His mastery over ignoring them began to slip. They would no longer be silenced.
So he did the only thing he could.
He ran.
Screeching tires, deafening horns, and echoes of profanity poured over the man as he staggered through the busy streets of Newark.
Whispers, cringes, pointed fingers … they fed the voices, giving them more power than they deserved.
He weaved his way down an alley, the flickering streetlight never fully penetrating the darkness. Stumbling over empty liquor bottles, water-stained crates, and crumpled wrappers and cups, he collapsed onto a pile of leaflets in a corner. When light from a passing car on the street washed over the opposite wall, he caught sight of a tattered blanket.
“Christ …” He wretched, hugging it to himself to keep warm on the late November night. It reeked of sour vomit.
He surrendered to sleep once the meowing cats, slamming trash lids, and flittering dance of the wind sweeping more trash in his direction silenced the voices.
The next day he discovered people were quite generous to homeless burn victims. An elderly man handed him a full pizza and a twenty-dollar bill. A young girl gifted him a half-full juice box, making her mother quite proud. By the end of the day, the empty half of his pizza box resembled a tip jar, but he didn’t have to do anything to earn the money. Looking pitiful proved to be his best talent.
Unfortunately, winter in New Jersey showed no mercy. After a week of living on the streets, he needed something warm. An unlocked car under an overpass worked fairly well, until the owner returned the following morning with a tow truck and chased the homeless man away.
Then, as if there was some higher power who gave a tiny shit about the homeless man, he passed an old building—a familiar building.
Marley’s
The angry, fighting voices in his head stopped, and one single voice—a new voice—whispered to him.
“Chris.” He exhaled, tears burning his eyes. “My name is Chris. I used to box at this gym. Oh god …” A hard lump formed in his throat. He wasn’t lost anymore. And he wasn’t a nameless nobody.
CHAPTER TWO
The stench of sweat and leather mingled with antiseptic, packing a punch of its own for anyone who walked through the door of Marley’s boxing gym. In just over two decades, it went from a popular gym that churned out some well-known professional fighters to a haven for the worst criminals, human monsters, and housing for the occasional homeless person if Marley took pity on them.
However, everything changed for the worse when Marley died.
Laminated member passes evolved into simply showing a concealed weapon to gain entrance. Nobody dared to walk through the door without a loaded gun or one hell of a respectable left hook.
A constant string of profanities danced to the thud, thud, thud of gloves beating against bags or fists ripping flesh while lawless sparring stained the rings with shades of red.
“Who’s Fuck Face over there?” Judd wiped his bloodied lip while climbing the ropes to find his unsteady legs after the only female member dropped his ass in under thirty seconds.
Jersey Six shrugged, ripping the tape from her hands. “Your gold tooth?” She nodded toward her feet.
Judd glanced behind him at the blood-covered gold crown on the mat. His tongue made a quick inspection, poking through the gaping hole in his already gnarly smile. “Jesus Christ, Jersey. Ya ain’t gonna give me a break, huh? Thanks a lot.”
“Mouth guard. Dumbass. And stop saying ain’t gonna.” She kicked the tooth closer to him, knowing he wasn’t working with enough brain power to consider the simplest of precautionary measures—not that she could point fingers with her eighth-grade level of education. But she knew mouth guards saved teeth, and “ain’t gonna ain’t going to college.” A Dena Russell quote. Jersey’s attention shifted to “Fuck Face” looking around the place like a lost tourist. Jersey had no idea how he managed to get through the door.