Memories

PATIENT'S POV [TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH, OF COURSE]

Lights blared, and I heard the crunch as the car collided with the building. It seemed to go in slow motion, as I watched my parents die. Their horrified faces would still give me nightmares, them pushing me out of the way and their bodies… ripped in two by the sheer force of the bent BMW. We used to be wealthy, happy…. untroubled by the matters of even getting a meal. Then that fateful night came along. Mother and Father were arguing over something… I think it was about dinner. How petty we are, to argue over having a fancy steak, or a Western burger, when you are lucky to have food at all. They never even saw that truck come from our right side. Green eyes, yes. Mother, she had the most beautiful eyes… like the sea. I remember screaming as I saw the last light leave their eyes as the metal of the car ripped their bodies apart…

He's crashing! We need a cart in here! Foreman, where's those paddles?

The next week I was in the St. Petersburg Home for Boys. All those luxuries I had, gone. We were required to have an occupation to help fund that… hellhole. After three years of being a paperboy one night I was walking home and a group of rich boys surrounded me.

Ooh, beggar boy's all alone? Let's have some fun, then. The uncouth barbarians growled as they surrounded me. I thought I was done until he came. They had me cornered, a mile from where the encounter had escalated. They had just landed a single blow when I heard a cry. I saw someone, yanking the bullies away from me. He held out a hand, and I took it without hesitation. I knew this was a friend. Alexi…. was a good man. He taught me how to fight. Even though he had a family he still took me in, and acted as a father to me. He told me that those people who attacked me were his old students. They had abandoned him when he had no more to teach them. He eventually decided that I was capable to fight on my own, and became my proffesional coach.

Charging- clear! Nothing's working, 13. Charging- clear! He's stable, for now.

Then, a month into my professional career of fighting, Alexi started getting strange calls. Some would send threats, others would just be the faint sound of someone breathing. Then the authorities called. Alexi was dead.

He's crashing again! Get the paddles! Foreman, now!

Those… mudaks… had shot him in the head, execution style. A slap in the face to Alexi, his family, and all of the Motherland. Things went uphill from there. Coaches reached out to me, for one knowing I was a skilled athlete, and for two the trauma I had recently faced. My career skyrocketed. In no time I had been decided to fight in the larger leagues, even though I was thirteen. When fighting an American, someone named Silva, I remember blacking out.

Charging, clear! Charging, clear! CHARGING, CLEAR! God, he's stable.

Then I woke up in a strange place, and everything after was a blur.