Tough Enough

“I-I’m listening,” he says, still addled.

“Good. Can you tell me what this is?”

I start at his head, dumping about a half gallon of gas onto his upper body. He sputters for a few seconds and shakes his head. I know the instant he makes the co

“What are you doing? What the hell are you doing? Hellllp!”

“Hey!” I say, kicking his foot again. “No one can hear you. The best thing you can do for yourself is commit to memory every word I’m about to say.”

He’s panting, struggling against his restraints. I pour another couple of splashes of gasoline on him, letting it run down his chest, and then douse his junk real good. He screams again when the cold liquid runs down between his legs. I can only imagine what he’s thinking.

It’s probably pointless to talk to him. Chances of him actually making it out of the next twelve hours alive are slim. But I’m going to say my piece anyway. For Katie.

“This is for Katie Rydale. No amount of suffering is enough, but this is a good start.”

“What are you going to do?” he wails, panicked.

“Do you really have to ask?”

I take out a pack of matches and toss them up into the air, catching them and stuffing them back into my pocket. His eyes watch my every move, getting wider by the second.

“Oh shit, oh shit! You can’t do this! You can’t do this to me! You know who my father is! He’ll have your ass if you do this!”

“Will he? Because I don’t think even Daddy can save you this time.”

Even in the dark, I see him turn white as a damn sheet at the coldness of my smile, of my words. He knows I speak the truth.

“Please,” he begs, giving me some small bit of satisfaction.

“I bet you’ve never had to beg for anything, have you? I bet others have, though. Like Katie. I bet she begged for you to stop when you hit her. I bet she would’ve begged for you not to strike that match if you’d given her the chance. But I bet she wouldn’t beg you for a damn thing now, would she?”

I see the piss trickle from the end of his shriveled dick and I spit on the ground beside him. “Yeah, you just think about that. I’ll be back soon. With more gas.”

The pathetic shit starts to cry. “Please, please, please,” he chants.

“Maybe I should leave your fate up to Katie. You think?” I muse aloud, knowing nothing can change the course of events now.

“That bitch!” he spits in furious desperation. “Don’t listen to that bitch! She’s a fuc—”

I kick him square in the jaw, silencing words I have no interest in hearing. He doesn’t deserve to speak them.

“Enough of that, asshole,” I say, dumping the remaining gas on his head, making sure he’s soaked from head to ass. When he’s coming to, already whimpering like a little school-boy bitch, I put a hand in my pocket and walk off, whistling as I swing the gas can.

Back at the parking lot, I pick up my phone. I’ve got fourteen missed calls and two messages. I don’t bother to listen to them. I want Senator Sims to sweat. I just type in a text to my buddies that reads one simple word: Ready.

FORTY-THREE

Katie

I’m drifting in that hazy place between sleep and wakefulness. My mind won’t let me rest completely, so I’ve been lying here for hours, thinking. Drifting. Wanting.

The television is playing softly, the bluish light flickering against my closed lids. I’m not concentrating on the words, but the name gets my attention.

I raise my head and glance down at the flat screen. There’s a small corner picture of Senator Sims, and a red ba

I sit up, fully awake now, my eyes wide and my pulse thudding. Am I dreaming? Am I hallucinating?

I stare at the screen, watching for more details. None come. Just that flash of news. Important news. News that could very well change my life.

People all over the country might be mourning their passing. I’m not one of those people. I feel only a sense of intense relief. And vindication. And freedom. I’m finally free. And so is Rogan.

The next thing to flash along the ticker tape at the bottom of the screen is a statement on the crowd’s anticipation of a mixed martial arts fight being held in Vegas tomorrow.

It’s Rogan.

On the one hand, I know I shouldn’t go. Shouldn’t even want to. But on the other hand, I desperately want to see him, to talk to him. To hear him say those three little words again. I want them to change everything.

But is that realistic? Is it possible? Is it possible for me to put the last few years behind me and move forward as yet another different version of myself? Or am I tough enough to embrace all the different parts and live as just me? Scarred yet whole. Free.

There’s only one way to find out, of course. And to do it, I’ll have to be brave. Tough. Tough enough to live, not just survive.

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I feel like I might be ready for that. Finally ready. Finally strong. Finally tough enough.

FORTY-FOUR

Rogan

I feel different. As Johns slides my gloves on, I know in my gut this will be a night like no other.

I focus on the music that I’ve heard before every fight since day one. I let it bring me to the present, where it’s only me and my opponent. The pump of blood to my muscles and the burst of adrenaline through my veins. This time, my opponent is internal, though, and wi

Above the music, I hear the pop pop pop of umbrellas opening all around me. I reach deep for my “The Rain” persona and I tap my fists together, throwing my hands up and dancing from foot to foot as I turn a circle and wordlessly thank my fans for showing up.

As my eyes scan the sea of mostly black umbrellas, I do a double take of the upper level of one section, my eyes stuttering over and then returning to a pink and white polka-dot umbrella. I stop and stare, trying to see past the bright lights to the face in the shadow, but I can’t. Surely it’s Katie. Isn’t it?

But then I think that, after all the commotion when I spotted her and acknowledged her at the charity fight, the new thing might be for women to bring a polka-dot umbrella. How the hell should I know?

But still, the fact that it might be starts to eat at my stomach.

I enter the cage and listen as the a

I walk to the center of the ring, as I’ve done dozens of time. I listen while the ref gives us our instructions, as I’ve done dozens of time. But when it comes times to tap gloves with my competitor, I don’t move. I don’t touch them; I only stare at him. I asked for this fight. People will expect a show. Maybe this will be show enough for them.

I think of how I’m going to phrase what I’m about to say. Nothing eloquent or elaborate. I’ll say the only thing I need to say. And the person who needs to understand it will understand.

The ref eyes me, as does my opponent, when I motion toward the ceiling for the drop-down mic. There’s a hushed kind of chatter that spreads through the crowd. I try to ignore it, which is much easier this time. My focus is on one person, whether she’s here or not.

When the mic drops down, I grab it and turn toward the umbrella that may or may not be hiding the woman I’m in love with. I gesture to her with my free hand and speak clearly to the waiting crowd.