Date = 13 June
Place = San Francisco (Grimms)
POV – Enrique
With every step I take on the pier towards Grimms, I feel more agitated, more guilty, more alone, more heartbroken, more unworthy. And with each step the pain consumes me more and more. If I don’t counterbalance this raging feelings with some physical pain, I’m going to blow soon. I know I am.
But cutting myself won’t do it this time … I need more. So I’m going to use my twin’s method of self-coping: FIGHTING. Usually I won’t go down this road because of my job … I can’t model or act with bruises all over my face, now can I … but today I have to. Fuck the job. Luckily I cleared my schedule for the transplant.
Right now I seriously need to hit something … and I need that something to hit back. And who better than the guys that’s sort of responsible for Aria getting into a dangerous situation? It is more or less their fault, so they deserve this. I burst through the doorway.
“How the fuck could you guys let that happen?” I’m tightly wound and I’m not sure who to hit first : Lee, Axel or Jackson. But they’re all gonna get it. Fuck, Aria could have died last night … Brian for sure almost did. I may not have all the details yet, but I know they were there. That’s enough for now.
The threesome stare at me with blank faces while I storm towards the bar where they’re casually eating breakfast as if nothing happened. It fuels my rage even more.
“You look like shit,” Lee opinionates, but I ignore him. I know I do. I’m struggling through a breakup here and it sucks. And the baby thing is not helping either. I don’t know when I actually slept last.
“Aria could have DIED!” I yell at them so they can hear the agonizing agitation of hopelessness that has been growing inside of me over the past two weeks. They also need to understand the devastating misery that already torments me just being separated from Aria. But if she has to die … I won’t be able to survive that.
I aim for the closest person. My hands reach down and grab Lee by his shirt, lifting him out of his seat as if he weighs nothing. In actuality … he almost doesn’t. I swear if he tip the scales at more than 115 lbs I’ll chew my shoes.
Drawing my arm back, I hesitate for a moment, wondering if it’s morally okay to hit a guy this small. And although I want to fight them, I want them to fight me more. I’m angry at myself that I couldn’t protect Aria. That I wasn’t there when she needed me. I need some physical pain to relieve my guilt … and whatever other fuck-up feelings I suddenly have. Lee steps forward, his left leg retracts and strikes out. His instep slams into my shin with a solid crunch, while at the same time his palm connects with my chin.
“Fuck!” I didn’t expect that. Little bastard. I straighten myself. Moral or not … he asked for it.
“Move!” Jackson firmly shoves Lee aside, “I’ll take it from here.” I think my brother miscalculated the force against Lee’s weight and the midget flies back, stumbling over a chair. He does some windmill arms, trying to keep upright, but still lands on his butt, the back of his head smashing against the corner of the bar.
Even better. I don’t care who I fight … I just need to exchange some punches. Jackson eyeballs me like a serpent, eyes calm and collected, ready to strike. I know there’s no way I can defeat my brother in combat, never could and probably never will. He knows it too. Strange how we can have the same bodies, even the same DNA, but be so different in so many ways.
Jackson’s never been one I could fully understand … hell, I can not even comprehend half of him despite the fact that we’re twins. Even when we were kids he acted impetuously unpredictable … changing moods like the ocean.
On one side he was this cowardly wimp: always the one to give in first; to cry the most; to scream the loudest; the scaredy cat; the pussy. This earned him the most wicked repercussions. Harsh, torturous, painful punishments which he endured without protest – gone was the weak crybaby then. Just like that, he would change into this strong demonic boy that liked being maltreated. And it’s this devil version that is now standing in front of me. And it’s just the version I need.
For a moment we just stand there, fists in the air, facing each other. I need to calmly calculate my next move, but I suppose my wrath blurs my brain and I feel like I’m outside myself. Rage filling my every muscle. I can’t think clearly, so I throw a clumsy punch in the direction of his head. He evades it easily, and we’re in the same position again.
“Hey, turd, I can fight my own battles,” Lee sneers, and rushes from the side. As he rushes, he swings a powerful right straight at Jackson’s face, catching my brother by surprise. To tell the truth, it was unexpected, but I quickly back out of the way. Jackson moves too late and takes it flush on the mouth, spits blood, and glares at Lee as his jaw sets.
“What the fuck, Rugrat!” he swears, “I’m protecting you here!”
“Exactly. I don’t need you too!” I’m not sure exactly why Lee’s upset. Maybe my brother demeaned his manhood or something. Guess I would also feel slightly humiliated if another guy stepped in to fight my battle for me … or maybe it’s because he hit his head.
Jackson sidesteps another blow from his roommate, ducks under his arm, bounces up again and spins around. For some reason he’s not fighting back, just avoiding. For Jackson, that is atypical. But what is even more bizarre is the gratifying proud look in his eyes. Lee stops short on stiff legs and whips back, his golden orbs darkens. He seems to swell up.
“Stop this,” Axel calls out running towards us, breaking Jackson’s concentration momentarily. Lee takes advantage of this opportunity to explodes at my twin again, kicking out high and hard, catching Jackson square on the sternum. He drops – not prepared for that truly desperate blow. Sitting on the floor, instead of being angry, he howls: “Whoa, s. w. e. e. t. n. e. s. s,” he pulls out the word sarcastically, “that was one hell of a kick for a shrimp.”
“I’m not your fucking sweetness!” Lee’s face contorts and he retracts his leg to kick the jackass on the ground. Jackson cups his hands over his junk to protect his balls, taking the kick on the ribs with a slight groan.
“Why, is that T-Bone’s special little name for you?” he smirks.
Lee snorts and quickly moves to straddle Jackson between his knees, letting more and more punches rain onto my brother’s body and face. Jackson crosses his arms in front of his face to cushion the blows, but do nothing to prevent it.
Axel instinctively launches himself forward to protect his friend, and without thinking, my right arm scythes around in a massive roundhouse strike. It connects some spot on his face, shooting him a little off balance. He corrects his footing and touches his cheek in surprise.
“Seriously? We’re doing this?” Then he comes straight at me, and I dodge right. But he is ready for that maneuver and lands a left hook in my guts. It feels as if being hit by a fifty pound hammer. Pain shoots through my liver, knocking the wind out of me. He follows up with a painful blow on my shoulder. I go down on one knee, next to where my laughing brother just effortlessly blocks Lee’s hits. He’s enjoying this way too much.
Why is he still on the ground? And why is he not fighting back? Lee stops his onslaught and gets up. Jackson peeps childishly through his arms before he props them down to sit up straight. Sometimes I’m envious of his conscienceless demeanor … as if he’s figured out the meaning of life and just don’t give a fuck. Turning my head to look at him, I stick my tongue out. He gives me a huge grin … before cracking my nose with the top of his head.
“Futing affhole,” I grumble, my words blurred by the blood flooding my nasal cavities.
He snickers and jumps up to tackle Lee. They struggle, Jackson trying to pin Lee’s back against his body, and Lee swinging blows left and right, trying to get loose.
I wipe the blood from my nose with my sleeve and force myself from the floor. This is not over yet … I still have some angry energy I need to get rid off. Axle comes for me again, same move. This time I crash an elbow into his side as I spin around him. He shows no pain. Relaxed. Moving easy as he dances before me.
I admit that I’m arguably the worst fighter in our group. Not that I’m a bad fighter, mind you, I’m just not at their level. Instead of martial arts and combat, I took dancing and acting lessons. Yeah, that in itself got me into a lot of fights, which I mostly won, but I’m out of my league here. Still, I refuse to go down easily. And I need this pain.
He swarms through the air at me. Come on like a prestressed drop-hammer. I dodge left and put an elbow in his face, but he connects with his right hand and knocks me sideways as if I’m weightless. I ram into something; grabbing out as I pummel to the ground, pulling the object of my collision with me.
“Eeehhhh,” someone screams, landing on top of my chest. I stare into my sister’s perplexed rage-filled face and gulp down some spit. Shit. A sick feeling surges up from my stomach. Whether it’s from shock or the metallic taste of blood in my mouth, is not clear.