Reborn
Mar 14, 2012 17:52:59 GMT -5
Post by Micky O'Reilly on Mar 14, 2012 17:52:59 GMT -5
I ran as fast as I could but he always found me. Every alleyway and back street I turned down he was there, always holding that knife. I'd been running for what felt like hours. I was exhausted, struggling to breathe, knowing that if I slowed down for even one second it was game over. I turned another corner and ran down yet another darkened alley, steam coming from drain vents. There was a street lamp at the other end and just past that I could see a cop car. I pushed my legs even harder, the muscles feeling like they would explode. Just ten more steps.
A large silhouette stepped into the light. There in his right hand… A black handle and eight inch blade, shining in the light. I planted my right foot into the floor, digging it in and turning at the same time, springing back in the other direction. I rose up and froze, he was right there… but how? I felt a pain in my stomach and looked down…
____________________________________________________________________
As I woke up I ran to the toilet and threw up. I'd been sober for 4 days now and each one had been the same. Nightmares, cold sweats and vomiting. This was usually followed later in the day by headaches and the shakes.
This shit was stupid.
I could end it so easily. I flushed the toilet and went to the window. It was 3am but there was a 24 hour gas station across the road. All I needed to do was go over there and get a drink… just one… what harm would it do? Just one last drink to make me feel better, like a kind of medicine…
I picked up the phone and punched in a number.
Voice: Hello?
The voice sounded confused and groggy, I'd probably woken them up.
Micky: Eric, it's me fella.
Eric: Micky? Hold on.
I heard him getting out of bed, a murmur in the background, probably his wife, the click of a door latch.
Eric: Another nightmare?
Micky: Yeah. I'm struggling here mate. I can't do this. Just one drink, that's all I'm asking.
Eric: We've gone over this already, you can't be tempted. Temptation leads to…?
Micky: Weakness. And weakness leads to sin. I know.
I grabbed the Catholic Bible from my bag and held it to my chest.
Eric: Good Michael. I know it isn't easy, but doing the right thing never is. Remind yourself why you're doing this, what you lost and what you can gain, and take strength from it. Do you remember?
Micky: Her.
Eric: Come on Micky you can do better than that. Come on, say her name, there's power in words, you just need to say the right ones.
Micky: Aly… Alyson. I'm doing it for Alyson.
I imagined her face, those green eyes, the shoulder length brown hair and the way she smiled. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Eric: Feeling better?
Micky: Yes. Thank you Father.
Eric: Good, I'm going now. You read some more of the Bible I gave you. Remember darkness is always in our hearts, the Lord is the light that can purge it. Good night Micky.
Micky: Good night Father.
I hung up the phone and sat back on the bed. Another fortnight in Pennsylvania. A fortnight without alcohol. Just me, my bible, alcohol withdrawal and the local gym. The local gym was my only refuge, the only place I had something to focus my mind on. The only place where I didn't suffer, aside from the expected exhaustion. I started to sweat. Cold and clammy. I opened my Bible and tried to turn the pages, my hands started shaking uncontrollably. I needed a drink. Just one.
I got up and put the Bible back in my bag and grabbed my clothes, getting changed quicker than you could say "whiskey". I opened the door of my room at the motel complex and made my decision. I turned to my left and ran. If I wasn't near the gas station, I couldn't give in to temptation. I ran for a few miles until the urges left me, then ran some more just for good measure. By the time the sun started to rise I had ran a circuit of at least 15 miles and had no interest in anything other than sleep. I made my way back to bed and slept more peacefully than at any other time these last four days.
____________________________________________________________________
When I woke up it was 2pm, gym time. I stopped at a diner on the way. The service was crappy but the food was good. Three sausages, four rashers of bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms and a mountain of scrambled egg. The nausea hadn't affected my appetite and I was ready to tackle the afternoon ahead of me.
I walked through the gym doors feeling unstoppable, well, difficult to stop at the very least. I was still having dizzy spells and my right arm was in pain from my fight with Preston Blake, but for the first time in years I felt alive. The things I was doing had meaning. An old guy in black track pants and a tight black t-shirt came over to me, he had pretty impressive musculature for his age, probably about 55.
Male: Mr O'Reilly?
Micky: Yeah. What can I do you for fella?
Male: I'm Bobby Grey, Mr Smith called me up to organise your training for the next month. He want's me to get you past your fight with Jacques Mercier and prepared for Tomkins.
Micky: I think I'll be alright fella, you go back to your bowls club and play some cribbage with the other has beens why don't ya,
Bobby's face grew dark, he stepped in close and whispered in my ear.
Bobby: You might think you're clever son but believe me you're not. Do you honestly think I couldn't lay you on your ass right now? You've been in here twenty seconds and I've already noticed the way your pupils have dilated, you're fidgeting where you stand. I'd say you've got some kind of addiction, you're craving for another hit. Also, I saw the way you winced opening those heavy reception doors, you're injured lad. I'll put you on your ass quicker than a three-count. Now, if you apologise I'm willing to overlook your lack of respect and put it down to withdrawal jitters, then we can go and work you like you've never been worked before and we can win some fights. If not, well, I'm sure the cctv footage of you being taken down by an old man will look great on the internet. Understand?
I looked him in the eye, he held my gaze, his steely blue eyes boring into me. He was right, `i was suffering right now and it was obvious.
Micky: Sorry boss, bad morning you know?
Bobby: I know son. Mr Smith filled me in on your drink problem, told me what to expect. That doesn't mean I'm going to go easy on you. We've got work to do and I don't come cheap. Get changed and get to the free weights.
____________________________________________________________________
Bobby: Two more… Last one… Good.
My injured arm was on fire. Bobby had lowered my regular bench press weight to 120kg, and added anchor chains. As I pressed more of the chain came off of the floor, increasing the weight. He said it would help repair the damaged tissue in my shoulder. I was exhausted and this was only the first exercise. The detox was taking it's toll.
Micky: Jesus Christ, I'm fucked.
Bobby: Hehe, good. Mercier and Tomkins are faster and more technical than you. But you're more powerful. We need to capitalise on that. Every punch should feel like a damn sack of bricks to them. When you drop them we don't want them getting back up. By the time I'm done with you people are going to compare you with Tyson in his prime. Now give me twelve more reps.
I laid back down on the bench and gritted my teeth. I had a goal and I intended to reach it.
Micky: Eyes on the prize Micky, eyes on the prize…
____________________________________________________________________
The scene opens in the locker room of a gym, Micky is the only person there. The color has drained from his face and his clothes are coated in sweat. He sips from a bottle of spring water and pulls a grimace.
Micky: Here you see me, laid bare. The mirage caused by alcoholism has been shattered, leaving this frail image behind. Everyone who has been following my actions over the last few days will know that I'm hurting right now. Physically I'm ruined. My shoulder is destroyed thanks to Preston. I can barely go for two hours without some kind of dizziness and nausea, hell I can barely hold my hands steady.
He drinks some more water, struggling to screw the lid back on afterwards. He lets out an amused laugh.
Micky: Four opponents in three matches. Three straight wins and I get beaten by a piece of plastic. Ah well, where was I? Oh yeah, physically screwed, but mentally? Mentally I've never been stronger. For the first time in a over a decade I'm sober. I can think clearly and plan ahead. If I was dangerous before, then now I'm lethal. I've got goals and and an aim and nothings going to stop me. But I'm playing the long game, taking things a step at a time. And the first step? A fight against "Black Magic" Mercier! A man who seems to think that his future can be found in tarot cards and tea leaves. I've got news for you Mercier, there is only one infallible power in this world, and it sure as hell isn't witch craft.
Micky grabs a book from the bench that he is sitting on, a copy of the Bible bound in brown leather.
Micky: The Lord is in all our lives, it's taken me a long time to realise this but now that I have I know what true power is. It's the power to face our demons, and conquer them. You have a darkness inside of you Jacques. You put faith in false idols and give in to your vices. It makes you weak. I know how that feels and I can help you. Next week you will be judged in a trial by fire. I will find the the beast within you and tame it with my own blood and sweat. Put simply, I will beat you down. And once I am done you will face the same choice that I faced. You can either embrace the light and repent, or you can turn your back on the one thing that can save you. I will pray for your soul Jacques.
He puts the Bible back down and gestures to himself.
Micky: Now I can guess what you're thinking Jacques. O'Reilly's just a drunk, even if he is sober he's not fit enough to fight me. Well our fight isn't for another seven days. Believe me, seven days is a long time. I'm working with the best in the business to get back to my peak in time for our fight. My shoulder is just an inconvenience, a minor setback. By the time we see each other in that ring I'll have healed, these shakes will have gone, and standing opposite you will be the hardest bastard you've ever faced so you better be prepared. When my boot makes contact with your face or my shoulder gets buried into your ribs you won't be worried about what your horoscope says. You'll be thinking "Damn, this x-ray's gonna look like an encyclopaedia of broken bones" because when I make that contact, and believe me I will, it's gonna be like a freight train hitting a shopping centre. A damned massacre.
The scene fades to black and the FGA logo appears.
A large silhouette stepped into the light. There in his right hand… A black handle and eight inch blade, shining in the light. I planted my right foot into the floor, digging it in and turning at the same time, springing back in the other direction. I rose up and froze, he was right there… but how? I felt a pain in my stomach and looked down…
____________________________________________________________________
As I woke up I ran to the toilet and threw up. I'd been sober for 4 days now and each one had been the same. Nightmares, cold sweats and vomiting. This was usually followed later in the day by headaches and the shakes.
This shit was stupid.
I could end it so easily. I flushed the toilet and went to the window. It was 3am but there was a 24 hour gas station across the road. All I needed to do was go over there and get a drink… just one… what harm would it do? Just one last drink to make me feel better, like a kind of medicine…
I picked up the phone and punched in a number.
Voice: Hello?
The voice sounded confused and groggy, I'd probably woken them up.
Micky: Eric, it's me fella.
Eric: Micky? Hold on.
I heard him getting out of bed, a murmur in the background, probably his wife, the click of a door latch.
Eric: Another nightmare?
Micky: Yeah. I'm struggling here mate. I can't do this. Just one drink, that's all I'm asking.
Eric: We've gone over this already, you can't be tempted. Temptation leads to…?
Micky: Weakness. And weakness leads to sin. I know.
I grabbed the Catholic Bible from my bag and held it to my chest.
Eric: Good Michael. I know it isn't easy, but doing the right thing never is. Remind yourself why you're doing this, what you lost and what you can gain, and take strength from it. Do you remember?
Micky: Her.
Eric: Come on Micky you can do better than that. Come on, say her name, there's power in words, you just need to say the right ones.
Micky: Aly… Alyson. I'm doing it for Alyson.
I imagined her face, those green eyes, the shoulder length brown hair and the way she smiled. I took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Eric: Feeling better?
Micky: Yes. Thank you Father.
Eric: Good, I'm going now. You read some more of the Bible I gave you. Remember darkness is always in our hearts, the Lord is the light that can purge it. Good night Micky.
Micky: Good night Father.
I hung up the phone and sat back on the bed. Another fortnight in Pennsylvania. A fortnight without alcohol. Just me, my bible, alcohol withdrawal and the local gym. The local gym was my only refuge, the only place I had something to focus my mind on. The only place where I didn't suffer, aside from the expected exhaustion. I started to sweat. Cold and clammy. I opened my Bible and tried to turn the pages, my hands started shaking uncontrollably. I needed a drink. Just one.
I got up and put the Bible back in my bag and grabbed my clothes, getting changed quicker than you could say "whiskey". I opened the door of my room at the motel complex and made my decision. I turned to my left and ran. If I wasn't near the gas station, I couldn't give in to temptation. I ran for a few miles until the urges left me, then ran some more just for good measure. By the time the sun started to rise I had ran a circuit of at least 15 miles and had no interest in anything other than sleep. I made my way back to bed and slept more peacefully than at any other time these last four days.
____________________________________________________________________
When I woke up it was 2pm, gym time. I stopped at a diner on the way. The service was crappy but the food was good. Three sausages, four rashers of bacon, tomatoes, mushrooms and a mountain of scrambled egg. The nausea hadn't affected my appetite and I was ready to tackle the afternoon ahead of me.
I walked through the gym doors feeling unstoppable, well, difficult to stop at the very least. I was still having dizzy spells and my right arm was in pain from my fight with Preston Blake, but for the first time in years I felt alive. The things I was doing had meaning. An old guy in black track pants and a tight black t-shirt came over to me, he had pretty impressive musculature for his age, probably about 55.
Male: Mr O'Reilly?
Micky: Yeah. What can I do you for fella?
Male: I'm Bobby Grey, Mr Smith called me up to organise your training for the next month. He want's me to get you past your fight with Jacques Mercier and prepared for Tomkins.
Micky: I think I'll be alright fella, you go back to your bowls club and play some cribbage with the other has beens why don't ya,
Bobby's face grew dark, he stepped in close and whispered in my ear.
Bobby: You might think you're clever son but believe me you're not. Do you honestly think I couldn't lay you on your ass right now? You've been in here twenty seconds and I've already noticed the way your pupils have dilated, you're fidgeting where you stand. I'd say you've got some kind of addiction, you're craving for another hit. Also, I saw the way you winced opening those heavy reception doors, you're injured lad. I'll put you on your ass quicker than a three-count. Now, if you apologise I'm willing to overlook your lack of respect and put it down to withdrawal jitters, then we can go and work you like you've never been worked before and we can win some fights. If not, well, I'm sure the cctv footage of you being taken down by an old man will look great on the internet. Understand?
I looked him in the eye, he held my gaze, his steely blue eyes boring into me. He was right, `i was suffering right now and it was obvious.
Micky: Sorry boss, bad morning you know?
Bobby: I know son. Mr Smith filled me in on your drink problem, told me what to expect. That doesn't mean I'm going to go easy on you. We've got work to do and I don't come cheap. Get changed and get to the free weights.
____________________________________________________________________
Bobby: Two more… Last one… Good.
My injured arm was on fire. Bobby had lowered my regular bench press weight to 120kg, and added anchor chains. As I pressed more of the chain came off of the floor, increasing the weight. He said it would help repair the damaged tissue in my shoulder. I was exhausted and this was only the first exercise. The detox was taking it's toll.
Micky: Jesus Christ, I'm fucked.
Bobby: Hehe, good. Mercier and Tomkins are faster and more technical than you. But you're more powerful. We need to capitalise on that. Every punch should feel like a damn sack of bricks to them. When you drop them we don't want them getting back up. By the time I'm done with you people are going to compare you with Tyson in his prime. Now give me twelve more reps.
I laid back down on the bench and gritted my teeth. I had a goal and I intended to reach it.
Micky: Eyes on the prize Micky, eyes on the prize…
____________________________________________________________________
The scene opens in the locker room of a gym, Micky is the only person there. The color has drained from his face and his clothes are coated in sweat. He sips from a bottle of spring water and pulls a grimace.
Micky: Here you see me, laid bare. The mirage caused by alcoholism has been shattered, leaving this frail image behind. Everyone who has been following my actions over the last few days will know that I'm hurting right now. Physically I'm ruined. My shoulder is destroyed thanks to Preston. I can barely go for two hours without some kind of dizziness and nausea, hell I can barely hold my hands steady.
He drinks some more water, struggling to screw the lid back on afterwards. He lets out an amused laugh.
Micky: Four opponents in three matches. Three straight wins and I get beaten by a piece of plastic. Ah well, where was I? Oh yeah, physically screwed, but mentally? Mentally I've never been stronger. For the first time in a over a decade I'm sober. I can think clearly and plan ahead. If I was dangerous before, then now I'm lethal. I've got goals and and an aim and nothings going to stop me. But I'm playing the long game, taking things a step at a time. And the first step? A fight against "Black Magic" Mercier! A man who seems to think that his future can be found in tarot cards and tea leaves. I've got news for you Mercier, there is only one infallible power in this world, and it sure as hell isn't witch craft.
Micky grabs a book from the bench that he is sitting on, a copy of the Bible bound in brown leather.
Micky: The Lord is in all our lives, it's taken me a long time to realise this but now that I have I know what true power is. It's the power to face our demons, and conquer them. You have a darkness inside of you Jacques. You put faith in false idols and give in to your vices. It makes you weak. I know how that feels and I can help you. Next week you will be judged in a trial by fire. I will find the the beast within you and tame it with my own blood and sweat. Put simply, I will beat you down. And once I am done you will face the same choice that I faced. You can either embrace the light and repent, or you can turn your back on the one thing that can save you. I will pray for your soul Jacques.
He puts the Bible back down and gestures to himself.
Micky: Now I can guess what you're thinking Jacques. O'Reilly's just a drunk, even if he is sober he's not fit enough to fight me. Well our fight isn't for another seven days. Believe me, seven days is a long time. I'm working with the best in the business to get back to my peak in time for our fight. My shoulder is just an inconvenience, a minor setback. By the time we see each other in that ring I'll have healed, these shakes will have gone, and standing opposite you will be the hardest bastard you've ever faced so you better be prepared. When my boot makes contact with your face or my shoulder gets buried into your ribs you won't be worried about what your horoscope says. You'll be thinking "Damn, this x-ray's gonna look like an encyclopaedia of broken bones" because when I make that contact, and believe me I will, it's gonna be like a freight train hitting a shopping centre. A damned massacre.
The scene fades to black and the FGA logo appears.