chronicle_tenko
Just Idiot
- Joined
- Apr 7, 2006
- Posts
- 12,402
Simon Marchant nursed his right hand; still tender, still sore. The fingers flexed just right, extending in vicious flicks sending droplets of water arcing over the small sink to the bathroom mirror extending fluidly, crisp whips from the knuckle, and the slow close of them like a slow coiling snake. Inexorable, crushing, and powerful. Unbeatable.
But the thumb still ached. Stiff and rigid, and without it to close the fist it felt weak. Like an old padlock, where the tumblers have rusted away. Shaky and loose, like one good blow would cause the whole things to fall apart. The mirror was laughing at him again. A small man holding up his small fist against the enormity of all reflection, the giant imposing ring behind him. Stiff black and red ropes. Holland's Gym emblazoned in tarnished gold. The paint peeling from the mats. How he wanted to smash that face in the mirror for laughing at him.
"Can't hear that sweet music anymore."
Eyes closed, fist clenched tight, muscles burning, while he breathed hard, good hand clutching the tiny porcelain hard enough to pull, off-white chunks onto the floor in a cracking symphony. He couldn't hear it anymore, not here, not at home, not in his bed, not in his ring.
Simon Marchant had broken his thumb. Badly, a misplaced effort that rolled his ankle, and sent him crashing, hands hardly taped onto the mat. Falls are catastrophic things. The impact alone can kill some large animals. Here however it was merely the toppling of 200 sculpted pounds of fury and intensity, and ritualistic rhythm crashing onto an unprotected hand. He'd felt it crunch, An ugly sound in his bones, reverberating through his body like an antique music box squealing if the key is turned the wrong way. Like he had broken something irreplaceable. And for 18 long weeks that was what had happened. He'd been miserable throughout it.
Doctors had told him he had a Bennet's fracture, that he had damaged the carpometacarpal joint, though not severely. They were excited about the prospects of returning his hand to 90% function, though no one would meet his gaze when he asked how strong his off hand jab would be. Personally it sounded to him like he had killed a fish inside his hand and the babies were angry about it. But they were right. It hurt to do anything. First the cast, then that horrible day they'd put his hand in a vise and drilled two pins into his hand. Sealing the thumb like an ugly hook for months. he wanted them both to die that day. And every day after until the pins were gone, and his hand felt like his again. Weeks more had passed, and he felt that dull ache. But he made a fist.
That was a start.
Soon he'd make music again.
But the thumb still ached. Stiff and rigid, and without it to close the fist it felt weak. Like an old padlock, where the tumblers have rusted away. Shaky and loose, like one good blow would cause the whole things to fall apart. The mirror was laughing at him again. A small man holding up his small fist against the enormity of all reflection, the giant imposing ring behind him. Stiff black and red ropes. Holland's Gym emblazoned in tarnished gold. The paint peeling from the mats. How he wanted to smash that face in the mirror for laughing at him.
"Can't hear that sweet music anymore."
Eyes closed, fist clenched tight, muscles burning, while he breathed hard, good hand clutching the tiny porcelain hard enough to pull, off-white chunks onto the floor in a cracking symphony. He couldn't hear it anymore, not here, not at home, not in his bed, not in his ring.
Simon Marchant had broken his thumb. Badly, a misplaced effort that rolled his ankle, and sent him crashing, hands hardly taped onto the mat. Falls are catastrophic things. The impact alone can kill some large animals. Here however it was merely the toppling of 200 sculpted pounds of fury and intensity, and ritualistic rhythm crashing onto an unprotected hand. He'd felt it crunch, An ugly sound in his bones, reverberating through his body like an antique music box squealing if the key is turned the wrong way. Like he had broken something irreplaceable. And for 18 long weeks that was what had happened. He'd been miserable throughout it.
Doctors had told him he had a Bennet's fracture, that he had damaged the carpometacarpal joint, though not severely. They were excited about the prospects of returning his hand to 90% function, though no one would meet his gaze when he asked how strong his off hand jab would be. Personally it sounded to him like he had killed a fish inside his hand and the babies were angry about it. But they were right. It hurt to do anything. First the cast, then that horrible day they'd put his hand in a vise and drilled two pins into his hand. Sealing the thumb like an ugly hook for months. he wanted them both to die that day. And every day after until the pins were gone, and his hand felt like his again. Weeks more had passed, and he felt that dull ache. But he made a fist.
That was a start.
Soon he'd make music again.
