(I’m participating in NaNoWriMo. See also my weekly blog entries at Virtual Writers, Inc. This is an excerpt of an in vitro novel “Bloody Management” only. Unfettered, unedited, but not dispirited. From chapter 8, “Boxing”.)

When Hestia was eight, her father took her to a boxing match. It was a Heavyweight World Champion fight:

“Two really big guys are going to hit each other in the face and one must win”, he told her. He was practically foaming at the mouth with excitement, and so she was excited too, not knowing what to expect, really.

They had the best tickets, right at the ring, because her father was a lawyer who knew a lawyer who worked for the company that put on the fight. “This is big money, Hesty”, her father remarked, using her least favourite nickname, “really big money.”

There was a lot of talk about money in her family: mother complained about not getting paid enough through her Royalties – but when she asked her about the Royals, her mom only laughed.

“Not Royals, stupid, Royalties – money”, she cried, almost choking on her coffee. She was always drinking coffee, strong coffee, and she smelled of coffee mixed with cigarettes. Even now, after more than thirty years, Hestia still wanted to smoke if only to smell like her mother. Her father only talked about not talking about money, since he hated talking about it. He liked making it, though: “Your father is very good at making money, which is why you’ll never have to worry about anything”, her mother said, and: “Money isn’t everything but it’s good to have more of it.”

Then came the fight, the big money fight of the big guys. And big they were, not only for an eight-year-old. Hestia had put on special clothes: this was the first time her father had taken her out. She used a few things of her mother’s: emerald earrings playing nicely off her green eyes, and a black feather tiara. “Can I wear this”, she asked her mother, who was writing and only waved at Hestia, her mind having wandered off somewhere else.

Five minutes after taking her seats, Hestia was perspiring like never before and she thought she’d choke from the air which was heavy with smoke and the sweat and ire of two thousand people. She was uncomfortable and bored. Her father was gesticulating to his friend, who sat next to him: he showed how he’d take out the Russian: “A right jab when he’s outreached himself!”

When the two boxers were in the ring, Hestia saw that one of them, a black guy, was a lot shorter than the other one, who looked too calm to be hitting anyone in the face, a boy with giant hands and giant feet.

“This guy is a whopping nine inches taller!”, she heard her father say to his friend. They were both smoking cigars and her father seemed to have forgotten she was there. So that were nine inches. The black guy reached but to the chest of the other one. Still, they were both incredibly big. Hestia had thought her father large, but these two looked frightful.

About half an hour later – she had put her hands over her eyes -  she felt something fall in her lap, making a funny sound as it made contact with the tiara, and Hestia thought ‘how funny I should be able to hear this with all the noise’. She dropped her hands and picked it up: it was a bloody tooth.

they fight at night when the chest feels tight. oh right, he’s wrong, again, and she’s right, of course she’s right. and he shouts, he always shouts. and then she screams, always screams. now he sulks, always sulking that bastard, i did ask him when we met whether he sulked easily and told him i couldnt stand it and he said smiling yes i sulk and they laughed it off. doves were circling above the lake then and the mood was good and the pants were tight oh so tight too tight. their work was done and they were far away from everyone.

there were sounds around them then and they were whispering to each other and holding on to their sanity because the love seemed to make them crazy. or perhaps it was the fear of coming close again, who knows now after all these years.

now it is night, and they fight, and then they grit their teeth and they smoke and they make plans anyway and run their life, run their lifelines from the ship, the family ship around their house and their car and their jobs around a pillar knot them so they don’t come loose because then everything might come loose.

they fight, at night they fight. oh right, she’s wrong, again, and he’s right, of course he’s right. the bitch. and she shouts and he sulks and later they hug, dug in their trenches, firing from close range, all their ammunition comes from a deep sea of love, muddy waters but theirs. around them stand others, billions of lovers and shouters, all right, all wrong all the time every day and every night. and they fight.

later that night, after the fight, the dove comes again, in their sleep. He reaches out to touch her and she doesn’t flinch. their hands clasp, from way up they look like one, and down there, it feels like they’re together, something to fight for, at night. they’re allright.

(published in the lovely Rejection Digest)