My stomach turned as I approached the street. What if she doesn't recognize me? Doubts crept into my head, nearly blinding me. The more I thought about it, her not recognizing me, maybe not even remembering me, the shorter my breath became until I nearly wasn't breathing. My hands shook and my knee began to ache. My limp became more pronounced, my heart pounding in my head, trying with all my might to keep it together.
As I looked up at the house, everything stopped. The trembling ceased, my heart stilled, my leg quit threatening to give out. However, what little breath I had left was now gone. A tear trickled down my face and landed in the dirt below my feet. Everything was still, unusually quiet. The lot where I was certain the house had been was now empty. A large patch of flimsy grass was all that stood. My entire past life was gone.
No, this isn't right. None of this is right... I panicked. My breath came back in short bursts, and they were barely enough to keep me conscious. She's supposed to be here, I'm supposed to be with her again.
I fell to a kneel in the dirt, trying and failing to pull myself together. I was like a ball of yarn that had suddenly burst open and I only had chopsticks to wrap it back together. The tears ran freely down my face and neck, creating a smattering of little pools in the ground. She was gone forever, and it was my fault. No, I thought. Not my fault. It's the Geary's fault. If they had told me sooner, I would've saved her. No, the general's fault. He wouldn't let me visit, or write, and he led us into battle.
Somehow it felt like she was dead. Like my child and my wife were both in the grave, and even the most avid of sorcerers couldn't bring them back. I let out a cry of anger toward the general, and the Geary's (however loving and gracious they were), the sound ringing and bouncing off the nearby houses; all the houses that weren't mine.
* * *
The stuffy, moist smell of the bar felt similar to the barn I had entered every morning for the past three years. I sat down and told the bartender to just get something that would get me drunk. He returned with a bottle of blackbush. The native leaves of the blackbush were used for tea and as a seasoning, but most of the harvest was fermented into a strong, leafy-tasting beer. The sort of drink that washed your troubles away.
I sat at the bar, reflecting and forgetting. A few minutes later, a man who had been sitting a few seats to my left scooted to the seat next to me and bought us each another blackbush. His dirty-blond, center-split hair greasy and bouncing off his forehead as he slumped over the bar top. There was a cut on his chin and a bruise on his right cheekbone.
"You're new here," He said.
I didn't reply.
"Quiet type, huh?" He chuckled. "I'm Nicholas, call me Nick."
I nodded faintly, taking a swallow. The bar seemed to become dead silent until Nick spoke again.
"You gonna tell me your name?"
I didn't answer.
Another spell of silence.
"I'm part of a little group of boxers. You know, for sport," he started talking again. I tried to discern whether he was drunk, bragging, making small talk, or all three. 'We're looking for a... hmm, what would you call this job? A gladiator of sorts, I suppose..." he trailed off and I took my chance to move to a one-man table in the corner with my drink. He gripped my arm as I stood with surprising force and speed. His stool skidded back. I swiveled my head around, glaring.
"An entertainer. Someone to rev up the crowd. Like a ringmaster in a circus. He runs the show, but he isn't the show."
I looked to the floor as if it would give me some sort of answer. Unfortunately, the planks stayed silent and stationary under our feet. I yanked my arm away and took a step back.
"I'm not interested in your circus." I slapped some coin onto the counter and started to limp out.
"You were in the war, hothead" Nick called after me. "Why would you refuse work if you have nothing left?"
I didn't realize I had moved until my face was centimeters from his, our breath colliding. He looked into my eyes with sheer boredom, as if he knew I wouldn't hurt him.
"I mean, sure, we can resort to violence, Agent Anger, but I'm sure you'd be on the ground quicker than you could call for mama." A dumb smirk crept across his lips.
"You don't know me," I snapped. I turned and walked out of the bar, trying my best to hide my limp. The back of my mind was whispering 'I don't know me either'.
* * *
The next day, we were both back in the bar. He sat next to me again but did not speak. I was on my second blackbush when the silence was broken.
"Fine." I could feel him staring a hole in the side of my head.
"Sorry?"
"I'll join your little circus," I clarified, almost changing my mind.
"Oh. Wonderful!" He took a sip of his drink and we became silent once more. In my peripheral vision, I noticed him looking toward my wedding ring.
"Marriage," Nick sighed. "More good women have been lost to marriage than to war, famine, disease, and disaster."
"This one was lost to disaster," I swallowed the rest of my drink. Nick grew suddenly sullen. I could sense an apology rising in his throat, but his lips stayed sealed.
"I'm sorry," he blurted after a few moments.
"I don't want to hear it."
Silence.
"What's your name Time Bomb?"
"Jon."
* * *
One year later
Nick threw his final punch and his opponent went down hard. The crowd cheered and the moderator lifted Nick's hand in his arm, announcing him the winner. I threw him his shirt as he stepped out of the fighting ring, a small spot of blood seeping through the fabric almost immediately after he slipped it on. His opponent was being mercilessly dragged out to clear for the next fight. I egged him on and pushed away a few fans as I handed him a bandage for his brow, which had been bleeding since the middle of the match. A mass of onlookers gathered around him to hand in their betted money.
We made our way up the stairs to the street walk, the noises of the next fight fading as we walked toward the bar. The street was quiet, save for the occasional band of rowdy boys or street dog rummaging through garbage.
Nick counted the bet money in his hand with a grin as we reached the bar, stuffing most of it into his pocket and keeping a little in hand for drinks and a room for the night. Once everything was settled, we made our way up the stairs to the accommodations.
Once we entered the room and the door was shut, I let out a burning question I'd had for weeks.
"What happened to you?" I plopped onto the squeaky bed.
"Huh?" the questioned back, pulling off his shirt and changing into another.
"Your back." I scanned his bare back before he slipped the second shirt on. The scar was still there, I hadn't been imagining it. A long, jagged line that wove between his shoulder blades down to his lower back.
"Just some unfriendly run-ins with the government."
I waited for more of the story, but Nick stayed silent. He tried his best to stay nonchalant, but I could tell there was something more going on in his eyes.
"And I'll do anything it takes to remain free from the kingdom's tyranny against my kind, even if that is to kill."
"What d'you mean, 'your kind'?"
Nick looked almost like he was going to respond, but he simply shook his head.
"That's a story for another time, chum."