Lost Boy by Tara Brown

think if we give her more time…"
    "No. She's not getting better, man. She's stuck. I was stuck. She needs this. Dr. Bradley may be ‘Fifty Shades of Cray’ but she knows her shit."
    I snort and nearly say something horrid, but I know he still feels grateful. I wish I could. I wish I was able to be appreciative for everything she did for me, but I can't. She made me hold the gun, she made me say it.
    I sigh, "I'm going to make sure everything is ready. I'll see you after Michelle leaves."
    He winks and strolls out of the room. I can see the swagger and know my sympathetic stare is still bothering him. He over does his manliness when anyone sees his weakness.
    I walk up the road to Columbus Park and lean against the chain-link fence. No matter how hard I try to fight it, I remember him the first time I saw him. He was lying about his age to UFC fight and getting beat to shit on purpose. His face was a bloody pulp. It makes me sick thinking about it—the crazed look on his face and the way he looked like he was having the time of his life. Jane led me into the crowd, looking out of place amongst the greasy and filthy patrons of the underground fights. She looked like a linen napkin in comparison to them all, clean and tidy and straight and anal. She leaned into my neck, whispering over the sound of the fists pummeling the crazy-looking guy in the cage and the screams of the crowd. She breathed the words into my neck, "He's like you."
    His swollen eyes found mine through the chain-link walls. I watched as a grin crossed his lips and the final blow hit. He screamed as he went back. His nose had to be broken. He dropped to the ground, suddenly looking so small. The winner held his hands in the air, jumping up and down. It was then that I saw the real Stuart. He stood up, smiling through the blood that coated his face and started the real fight. Like the Hulk in comics, he needed to be angry to really fight. He needed to fear you to beat you. He needed something to drive his fists in anger. He could scrimmage but not fight for real, without anger.
    His fists fought fast and hard, not needing a break but driving forward. He was much smaller than the guy he was viciously beating but it didn’t matter. The man had believed he held the upper hand. He didn’t understand what a real fight was to Stuart. To win, he must come from behind. He must be chained to a wall, beaten and injured in ways people don’t recover from. He must see his dead brother lying next to him, still chained to the wall but getting smaller every day. He must feel every lash of the belt in the hand of the janitor who took them from the schoolyard. Only then, can he touch that part of himself and rise above the pain. Only then, is he a champion in his own heart.
    Stuart didn’t wait for the shock to stop silencing the crowd. He stepped past the unconscious man, walked from the cage and down the hallway. Jane took my hand, leading me after him into the dark tunnel where the change rooms were.
    We sat in awe and awkward silence as he showered and sobbed. I imagined him in there, huddled and desperate to be clean again.
    I knew that feeling. I knew that filth.
    She was right. He was like me.
    We have been together since and we will be together until we die, hopefully on the same day, like we had promised each other all those years before.
    My hands almost bleed where I grip the fence and stare out at the barren field and dirt they call a park. It feels like my insides, undeveloped and barren, but loaded with potential.
    I sigh when my phone rings and see it's her.
    "Hello."
    I can hear Jane smiling with anticipation when she speaks, "Hello, Eli. You all ready for tonight?"
    I stare at the chain-link fence and nod, "I am."
    "I need you to be your usual cold and confident self. But use an Australian accent when you speak. It's a trigger for her. In hypnosis she suggested it was an issue for her. I played a recording of a woman speaking with the accent and nothing