A Reclamation By Bruising

Morning light streams through a dirty, east-facing window; dust particles dance and bounce through the slice of brightness. 

He’s aware of the light; his mouth is dry and his eyes are mostly swollen shut. He reaches to scratch his nose, and feels the gritty flecks of dried blood on his fingertips. He tries to smile, thinking about last night, but winces instead, with a shudder of pain that buzzes like electricity from the split lip. A tentative tongue escapes his mouth and gingerly probes the swelling. The faint copper taste triggers a rush of air into his chest, then a heavy, nearly giddy, sigh. 

His movements are nearly slow-motion; feet fall from the bed and hit the hardwood floor with a hollow thud. He stands, wobbly, and walks, staggered, to the bathroom. He is not surprised that his piss is tinged red with blood. 

He moves to the bathroom mirror, looks at his reflection. He spreads his battered lips as far as he dares, then tongues the broken front tooth. He starts tapping the opening with the tip of his tongue, staccato-quick. His eyes narrow and he marvels at the reflection. Eyes hollow and sullen and black. The nose, crooked now. The open gash through his left eyebrow. 

He turns slowly and watches his reflection. 

Bruises cover his torso from throat to his pelvis; some have turned bruised banana yellow. Others are fresh - purples, pinks, greens. What stands out? Each bruise is an imprint of a closed fist, knuckle indentations, fury. 

He moves to the kitchen, puts water onto the boil, drops a tea bag into a cup. And squats slowly into one of two wooden chairs that complement the kitchen table. He sits stick-straight from the waist up, not wanting to touch his bare back to the wooden chair slats; it’s just too much pressure to put on the 16-inch-long wobbly gash, the remnants of a broken bottle wielded by a particularly lithe and swift combatant.

He picks up a red felt tip pen and scans the desk calendar on the table. He puts another red X through yesterday’s date. Scribbles in a time, notes on injuries. Satisfied, he caps the pen, taps a little beat across the paper, drops the pen, picks up the steaming mug of tea. 

He’s not a casualty, not in the proper sense. He’s not a survivor, either. No far, far from it. He simply is. Whatever that means. An existence, maybe. Insignificant as it can seem in a world of 7.8 billion souls. 

But there is purpose in his abrasions, he thinks. Nobility in the nicks and cuts. 

Dressed for the streets - Ministry T-shirt, faded 501 Levi’s, black Chuck Taylors - he unlocks the door, steps into the hallway and locks up. A tremor shoots up his spine. The tingling makes his shoulders shutter, but in a good way. He bows his head, punches the elevator button and waits. 

Today seems different. He is different. Today he feels - a sensation of worth, even. As air pushes in and out of his lungs, he runs his fingers through sloppy hair and braces for the day. This could be the day. He knows it. 

He looks back at his apartment door, cracks his neck, and speaks into the emptiness: 

“I am one more bar fight from salvation.”