Repent and Be Cleansed || Drabble
“I’m tired of hurting, Jaxon. Of being hurt by you. I—I love you. You know that… But I can’t keep at this destructive bloody cycle with you.” The man’s voice sounded weary, obvious even through the phone.
“Does… does this mean we’re through? Are ya done with me, Timothy?” Jaxon swallowed thickly, fear and guilt ripping through him as he clutched the cellphone tighter.
“I don’t know. I’m just tired. I think I need some time to think. You do too.”
“Ya can’t leave me, angel. I n-need —”
“ —Don’t call me that. Not right now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know, darling.”
“I’ll fix it. I’ll fix this. Okay? Tim?”
“What does that— Jaxon. Don’t you—”
“I’ll fix me. You’ll see. I’ll talk to ya soon, little angel.”
Bare feet crossed into the cage; bare feet on a firm floor. It was familiar, like coming home; not a home where he felt safe and loved and warm. This was the home he knewhe deserved.
His hands were wrapped tight, taped and covered in gloves that protected and padded his knuckles. Even barefoot, shirtless, and lacking any form of head protection, the gloves felt like too much. He wanted to feel every ounce of pain.
For the first time in a long time, Jaxon felt light; bouncing on the balls of his feet, the tightness leaving his chest, and a certain anticipation and excitement replacing it. The cage was his confessional, the movements his confessions, the hits were his penance, and the wounds his forgiveness. He sought repentance. Here, pain was God, and he bowed before it, welcoming God in full.
“Forgive me, Father. I kneel before thee, seeking punishment for my sins,” he whispered inwardly, crossing himself in a quiet reverence.
He gave his opponent a lazy grin, unintimidated and casual as if to say ‘None of your hits are hard enough to hurt any worse’.
The commencement of the fight felt like stepping into blessed baptismal waters, the beginning of his cleansing. The first solid landing of fist against flesh, Jaxon sighed, relishing in the way his body’s muscle memory took over. It was the catharsis he craved, loosing his anger into the flesh of his foolish opponent; but the first blow he absorbed brought a whole different sensation that was pushed back into his frame. The trading of pain became a catalyst and he careened headfirst into his source of relief, which came in the form of some Irish bloke, just slightly slimmer than himself. Each hit he landed siphoned his soul deep self-hate from his powerful limbs and hollow chest. Each hit he took gave him the punishment he sought in the form of bruised flesh and split skin. He didn’t bother to guard or block the other’s attacks, welcoming them with open arms in the truest sense.
He must have been smiling, or perhaps even laughing by the way he felt his chest rumble, because his opponent roared in primal frustration, and his next melee came with a feral strength that could only be fueled by a special type of rage. He couldn’t tell what his body was doing; the pain was too great, and the warmth that flooded through him too sweet.
The trading of blows continued, and Jaxon began counting them off, keeping record of his purpose here.
His jaw rattled; for the time I begged to stay.
His ribs took a violent kick; for the time he needed me to stay, and I only walked away.
His lip split and blood flooded his mouth; for the time I kissed his scars, only to leave before his wake.
A hot stream of blood poured from his brow; for all the times I lied and said it was nothing more than sex.
A spike of pain shot through his temple; for the time I pushed away when all he needed was a gentle kiss.
A deep ache resounded in his kidney; for all the calls and texts I was too scared to answer.
A searing heat blossomed across his cheekbone; for making him think I held the power, when he never knew the hold he had on me.
The final blow sunk him to the ground, a sharp kick to his weaker knee and he was crumpled; but it was compounded with consecutive hits to his eye, cheek, and chin; for letting him love me at all.
As he lay there on the mat, a mess of bruises, ugly gashes and screaming pain, he smiled gently, not hearing the bell ring, and not feeling himself being hauled up. Despite it, he muttered softly beneath the roar:
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. – Hail Mary, full of grace, deliver me unto thee.”
* * *
The next few hours were a blur, hazed and whited out in patches by a bruised mind. There were dazed half remembrances of being driven home in his truck by a ring side friend. “Sleep it off, brother,” the voice echoed in his head, a distant dream-like rumble; and sleep he did. When his worn and weary body hit his bed, the concern of bleeding, bruised, and broken flesh was the farthest thing from his thoughts—despite the too large quantity of it. His body was spent, and his mind, no longer able to sustain consciousness, slipped into the truly blessed respite of sleep.
Somewhere in the haze of his oblivion, his phone rang uselessly from his pocket, chiming the tone only one person had; but it didn’t reach far enough into the daze to pull Jaxon from its depths. He didn’t know how long passed that he slept as his brain attempted to begin healing. Light tinged at his dreamless sleep, the dark no longer so absolute and haunting. He may well have slept far longer than he did, if it weren’t for the panicked voice that appeared in his doorway. It was that voice which could only pierce the thick veil that lay over the man’s consciousness, and when gentle touch was added to the sweet sound, Jaxon’s eyes drew open by sheer force of will. Although clear sight didn’t equal clear mind, and the haze he saw the blonde man in front of him through was tinged with delirious and deluded emotion. His lips pulled into a bleary smile, and in labored voice, he spoke.
“I have repented, and an angel was sent.”
He may not have seen the panic in the other’s eyes, nor heard anything else the man said; but he did feel the touch across his skin, and the warm weight and presence against his body. For the first time in a long time, he felt pure and worthy of love.
