CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT –
CHRIS POINT OF VIEW
I stormed down the cracked sidewalk, Jake’s car peeling away behind me. “A woman boxer?” I spun on my heel; jaw clenched. “Why didn’t you just say that, Jake?”
He leaned out the window with that insufferable smirk. “Where’s the fun in that, writer boy?” He mimicked Megan making my cheek blush.
“This isn’t a game!” I snapped. “You made me look like an idiot in there.”
Jake’s smile only widened. “Relax, she ate it up. Megan loves throwing people off-balance.” He winked. “Consider it an initiation.” He smirked. “She loved you!” He winked.
The car roared off before I could protest further. I growled under my breath, fists balling as I watched his taillights disappear around the corner. “Some friend you are…”
….
I slammed the apartment door, tossing my jacket onto the crooked coat rack. “A woman boxer…” I shook my head, dropping onto the sagging futon with a huff.
Interesting.
Running a hand through my disheveled hair, I booted up the old laptop, the whirring fan struggling to expel hot air.
While it churned to life, I paced in tight loops, pausing to glare at the faded camping photo on the cluttered end table.
“What are you getting yourself into this time, Parsons?” I muttered, fingers drumming against denim as I awaited the agonizing boot-up sequence.
Finally, the desktop flickered into view, and I immediately punched her name into the search engine, the cursor blinking with maddening slowness.
“‘Megan Williams, Boxer’ – go.”
The first few pages yielded highlight reels and career recaps, but I was after the inside story.
The woman behind the glitz and brutality. Growling in frustration, I tugged at my collar.
“Dammit, there has to be more depth here somewhere!” My voice bounced off the bare walls as I scrolled feverishly. “Show me the real you, Megan…”
A few clicks later, I struck virtual gold – a battered personal blog from her amateur days, the tone markedly different from the PR-sanitized mainstream hits.
Leaning in with bated breath, I began devouring the Rawly-rendered accounts, her unvarnished voice leaping from the screen:
“… Miles was at it again last night, riding my ass about spending too much time at the gym between fights instead of playing the glamor pony on his arm…”
I paused, brow furrowing as realization crept in. So, this Miles character was the ex?
The one who had apparently tormented and torn her down before her meteoric rise?
Swallowing hard, I kept reading, the words blurring together into a vivid, unflinching portrait of a woman’s spirit being whittled to near breaking by an oppressive partner’s conditioning.
“…. Told me I was worthless, just a hanger-on coasting on his spotlight and would amount to nothing without his guiding hand…”
My hands were trembling now, the screen’s sickly glow casting harsh shadows across the worn upholstery as the truth emerged in brutal, first-hand clarity.
I had gravely underestimated the depths of Megan’s personal adversities, the private anguish concealed behind that blazing dynamo of confidence and prowess.
This wasn’t just about comeuppance for some vengeful ex or reclaiming a shattered reputation.
No, Megan’s quest was so much deeper, more elemental than any headline could convey.
She was battling to reclaim her very identity – her humanity – from the toxic voices and abuse that had nearly broken her spirit for good.
The magnitude of her odyssey left me reeling, an odd sense of kinship and protectiveness swelling in my chest.
Of course the woman who had leveled me with that syrupy-rich timbre and soul-piercing jade stare evoked such a visceral response.
She was a survivor, boldly snarling in the face of a world that had tried relentlessly to snuff out her inner light.
I slumped back against the futon, hands shielding my eyes as the words swam in my mind. This story, Megan’s story, wasn’t one I could simply observe and document from a clinical distance.
If I had any hope of doing it justice, of honoring her monumental struggle with the gravity and nuance it deserved, I would need to peel off my own armored layers as well.
To walk bravely into the heart of her pain and transcribe the echoes that still reverberated through those battle-worn scar tissues, no matter how excruciating.
Only then could I even begin to re-forge Megan Williams’ shattered narrative into the profound saga of reclamation and redemption it was destined to become.
…..
I juggled the grocery bags, struggling to push through the swinging mall doors with my shoulder. The cacophony of chattering teens and wafting pretzels assaulted my senses as I veered towards the food court.
“Ohmigod, did you see Miles’ new movie? He’s such a dreamboat!”
The high-pitched squeal made me wince as a gaggle of giggly girls brushed past in a cloud of sickly-sweet perfume. I shot them an annoyed glare, but they paid me no mind, too engrossed in their vapid celebrity worship.
“I know, right?” Another voice tittered in agreement. “That man is absolute perfection. Although, I never understood what he saw in that Megan chick – she’s built like a dude.”
A chorus of shrill giggles erupted as I bristled, the plastic grocery handles digging into my palms. So they were gossiping about Megan and her ex.
“For real!” The first mocked in a reedy tone. “What kind of guy dates a boxer anyway? She must’ve been an absolute animal in the sack to make up for those manly muscles and bad temper.”
“A total humiliating mismatch if you ask me,” the second snickered cruelly.
I opened my mouth to fire off an outraged retort at their insensitive remarks, but they’d already swanned past, too absorbed in their phones to notice anyone else existed.
Gritting my teeth, I stalked towards the deserted hallway leading to the exit, groceries abandoned in a jumbled heap on the tiled floor as their barbed words continued echoing in my skull.
“Manly… mismatch… animal in the sack…” I growled, slamming my fist against the cinderblock wall hard enough to sting my knuckles.
Those insipid, shallow girls couldn’t possibly comprehend the first thing about Megan’s struggles, or the fortitude it took to claw her way back from that bastard Miles’ psychological torment.
They saw only surfaces, letting their own petty jealousies and preconceived notions dictate their narrow worldviews.
In that moment, I despised their casual cruelty and willful ignorance more than I’d ever loathed anything.
Because for the first time in my life, I’d glimpsed true adversity, true indomitability of spirit… and these simpering banshees had the audacity to belittle and mock it as some punchline without a second thought.
Maybe this assignment delving into the real Megan Williams wasn’t simply a writing opportunity after all.
Perhaps it was fated to be my personal awakening as well – a cosmic lens through which I could shed the blinders imposed by my own sheltered privilege and bear witness to the beautifully flawed, radically human experiences happening all around me.
With a weary sigh, I scooped up the disheveled grocery bags and pushed on towards the parking lot, Megan’s courageous silhouette burning brighter than ever in my mind’s eye.
Those cruel voices would not be the ones defining her narrative – not if I had any say in it.
“Who is this Miles Bastard? Megan doesn’t deserve a Trash like him anyway.”