Page 89 of Yours on the Canvas

I squeeze and pull back. I channel every week of agony, every second of imprisonment, every ounce of rage and love I have left inside me into my grip.

The Beast thrashes beneath me, his massive arms clawing at the canvas, trying to tear my grip away. I hold on, my muscles trembling, my vision fading to absolute black at the edges.

Come on, I tell myself. Hold on.

Slowly, the resistance on top of me fades. His arms drop limp to the mat. The referee dives in, grabbing my shoulders and tearing me away, raising my hand in the air as the winner of the bloodbath.

The roaring crowd fades into a muffled hum. My legs give out entirely beneath me. I collapse onto my hands and knees on the bloody canvas, gasping for breath that won’t come, my body finally shutting down from the sheer trauma of the fight.

With one final effort, I lean back, kneeling on the canvas, I scream his name.

“Sol!”

Rough hands grab me by the shoulders, hauling me to my feet.

It’s Ray and my dad, their faces twisted in ugly sneers even though I won. They drag me away from the cage, pushing me down the concrete corridor toward the back exit.

“You took too long,” my dad spits, shoving me hard against the brick wall of the alleyway as the cold night air hits my face. “You looked weak.”

“Pathetic,” Ray adds, landing a vicious, unexpected punch straight to my already shattered stomach.

The pain is a blinding white flash that steals the last of my breath. My knees buckle, and I slide down the wet brick wall into the filthy alley pavement, curled into a tight ball as the darkness rushes in to swallow me whole.

My father and uncle stand over me, their voices fading into a distant echo as the blood pools beneath my face.

Through the roaring in my ears, through the agony tearing through my ribs, there is only one thought left, echoing like a desperate prayer in the dark before my eyes close for good.

Sol. Please find me, Sol.

* * *

The house above us is dead quiet except for the heavy, rhythmic thud of my father’s and Ray’s boots across the wooden floorboards upstairs.

My eyes flutter open, the harsh yellow glare of the single overhead bulb stabbing needles straight into my brain.

I’m on my narrow cot, tied to it like a naughty dog.

“No, no more.” My voice is a whisper as I beg the silence. I know what’s going to happen, and I know my broken body will not take much more.

My back presses flat against the thin, sagging mattress, my arms wrenched upward and secured tightly to the iron headboard, while my ankles are bound to the foot posts. I am entirely trapped, pinned like an insect on a board.

Heavy footsteps echo down the concrete stairs, and my body starts to vibrate with terror. The sound of their voices scrapes against my raw nerves, making my stomach heave with a violent, sickening wave of nausea.

Ray and my dad step into the cage. Ray is rolling up his sleeves, a dark, manic grin stretched across his face, but it is what my dad is holding in his right hand that makes the blood freeze completely in my veins.

A thick, folded length of black leather strap. The exact leather strap they used when I was a boy. The one that taught me how to scream into the mattress until my throat bled, the one that trained me to be quiet before I even knew what a cage was.

“Look at him, Dale. He’s finally waking up,” Ray mutters, walking over to the side of the bed and leaning down. His hand reaches out, gripping my jaw tightly, forcing me to look at him. “You really messed up tonight, didn’t you, stray dog?”

“I… I won,” I choke out, my voice raspy, broken, and barely loud enough to carry across the room.

My father stops at the foot of the bed. His face is carved from absolute granite, his eyes cold and devoid of any human warmth. He drops an end, the buckle hitting the metal of the cot, the sharp clang echoing off the concrete walls like a gunshot, sending jolts of irrational fear coursing through my body,

“You won because we told you to survive the first round,” my dad snarls, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy register. “You didn’t win with discipline. You fought dirty. You let the crowd see you struggle. You embarrassed us out there, Jack. You think because you threw some street-fighter punches that you’re suddenly a man?”

“We built you, boy,” Ray adds, his thumb digging viciously into the bruised hinge of my jaw before letting go. “And if you forget who owns you, we have to remind you.”

My chest heaves, panic clawing its way up my throat as I realise what is coming. I fight trying to break the zip-ties but the restraints pull taut against my skin, burning my wrists as I pull.