I do not own Rambo.
Been watching since I was 11.
Not His Fight
He'd tried to stay out of it.
It wasn't his problem, wasn't his fight.
Plenty of couples had arguments, even shouting ones.
He wouldn't know; he'd never been a part of a couple long enough to find out, not really.
And whoever she was, she was a grown woman who could leave any time she wanted to.
You're not gonna change him, honey.
Not unless he wants to.
So it wasn't his problem, it wasn't.
Not even when the crying began, things being thrown into the walls, things being broken.
He tried not to listen.
Paper thin walls.
It's Christmas, for God's sake.
Not that one could tell in John Rambo's sparsely furnished, bare-walled apartment.
Still, it wasn't his problem.
Until . . .
"Mami! Mami!"
"Cierra la puta boca!"
. . . the little girl started crying.
Alright. That's fucking it.
John Rambo set his whiskey-filled tumbler on the cracked green Formica kitchen tabletop with a decisive thunk and stood up, battered chair legs erratically skipping back across the peeling linoleum floor.
When he knocked on the door, all the ruckus and uproar came to an abrupt halt.
Only the crying, muffled as it was, remained.
Seconds passed and he knocked again, jaw clenched in grim determination.
I'll fucking break it down if you don't open it.
And then heavy, unsteady footsteps clunked across the floor, a hand fumbled for the doorknob.
And the door had opened
"Que?"
Bleary eyes, flushed face.
Fumes of alcohol leaking out of every pore.
"Carajo quieres, estupido?"
John Rambo couldn't see the woman crying.
But he could hear her.
He could see the belt wrapped around the man's hand, metal buckle hanging straight down, ready to swing.
And see the child, little girl.
No more than eight.
"Gabriella, Gabriella, ven aqui, bebe . . ."
The scrawny, waifish child ignoring her mother's cracked surreash.
Standing in plain sight of the ex Green Beret.
Who understood everything he needed to.
And what . . .
"Hey. Estupido. Carajo quieres?"
. . . he was going to do.
John Rambo shifted his gaze back to the drunken wife and child beater.
And burst into action.
Smashing a closed fist directly into the fleshy, blotchy face.
Breaking the already crooked nose, blood flowing before the sack of shit even hits the floor.
Ignoring the enraged, garbled shouting from the drunk at his feet, the screams of the woman he now sees huddled in the corner.
Hunkering over, punching the asshole in the face, one fist gripping a wad of sweat-damp shirt.
Over and over again.
Until he lost consciousness.
And John Rambo rises, knuckles bloody, face a scowl.
Stepping dismissively over the body just breathing in the open doorway.
And stands facing the woman.
She's stopped screaming but she holds her daughter tight and brandishes a kitchen knife shakily in his direction.
Tears track down her cheeks, mixing with the blood from the split lip her husband gifted her when he threw her into the wall and followed up with his fists.
Her shirt is torn and her exposed neck is covered with bruises that look like fingers.
Her curtain of dark hair is disheveled and hangs in her face.
She cannot stand because there's an ice pick sticking out of her knee at an odd angle and she's missing a shoe.
All John Rambo wants to do is turn around and continue beating on the man on the floor until he stops breathing.
But instead he holds his hands up so she can see he has no weapon.
Not that he needs one.
And takes a step and then another, broken Christmas ornaments and debris crunching under his booted feet.
Her eyes are terrified, nostrils flared as he advances slowly toward her, nothing to be done about his intimidating bulk as he looms over the helpless woman and her child huddled behind a worn, brown couch.
He kneels down slow, holding her gaze with his, like a charmer and cobra.
The knife in the woman's hand is gripped so hard her knuckles stand out in sharp relief as he reaches out both hands.
One to steady her knee.
One to grip the handle of the ice pick.
She knows what he's going to do.
Her face is a rictus of pain and fear.
She releases the child, wraps thin, bony fingers around John Rambo's hand on her knee, around the wrist, in a death grip.
Then she nods.
And he jerks the metal out from under the kneecap, straight out the way it came in one swift, sure motion.
Her eyes go even wider than before, then shut completely.
A scream escapes her clenched white teeth and he sees the missing space on the side where one was knocked out at an earlier beating.
The hand holding the knife releases it to clatter metallically to the floor, slaps down over the wounded knee.
The fingers on his wrist spasm, nails digging crescents into his flesh.
And they remain thus for a moment as she gasps for breath and John Rambo waits.
Finally she opens her eyes, breath wheezing in her chest and throat, tears of pain streaming.
She stares at him, wounded, afraid, racked with pain.
And he stares right back.
Then carefully leans forward, eases his arms under her.
And picks her up.
The child speaks not a word, only rises with them.
A copy of her mother in miniature form.
Large, swollen, owlish eyes staring silently at him at he lifts her mother up.
The mother who is shaking, trembling, blood seeping from her knee, her lip.
Head down, body rigid and unyielding, hand still clamped over bleeding knee.
She's only just enduring his help, his touch, and that's okay, they don't know each other, he's only carrying her and her daughter the fuck out of this apartment with its blood on the floor and holes punched in the walls.
John Rambo looks down at the child.
"Come on."
And speaks.
"Let's go."
It's hot as hell in his apartment, only a rattly old table fan to move the heat around the four hundred square foot space.
In the poor lighting of the tiny kitchen area, he cleans her wounds with rubbing alcohol and a cloth.
Having deposited her gently into a chair first.
The child seated next to the mother.
The whiskey bottle and glass set into the sink.
He elevates the damaged knee, disinfects it, wraps it, and uses bag of frozen peas to ice it.
Throughout this process, the woman doesn't speak, doesn't fight.
The only sounds in the room are the oscillating of the fan and her rasped breathing, small whimpers of pain at the burning of the alcohol against exposed nerve endings.
He figures she's suffered worse.
The child is silent, watching.
When he's done, John Rambo washes his hands and runs tap water into glasses.
Sets them in front of the mother and the child.
And makes them . . .
"Here. Eat."
. . . some eggs.
Scrambled. With lots of hot sauce.
Toast.
They eat slowly, tentatively, the little girl, with a slightly wrinkled nose and tiny bites.
He guesses he's not a very good cook.
John Rambo eats as he's always eaten, as far back as he can remember.
Neat and mechanical.
Chew, swallow.
Chew, swallow.
And then, . . .
"Gracias."
"De nada."
. . . he puts everything in the sink.
After they eat, he picks the weary woman up again, her arms around his neck this time, body a little less rigid.
And carries her . . .
"You'll be safe here for tonight."
. . . into the tiny bedroom.
He lays her down on a sagging twin mattress.
The girl crawls in next to her.
And he covers them both with the threadbare blanket.
The little girl wraps her arms around her mama and stares up at him with those big, dark eyes.
"I'll be in the other room."
He closes the door, leaving a crack wide enough for light to just shine through and not leave them in complete darkness.
And goes into the living room.
Lays down on the lumpy couch, arms crossed over his chest.
And stares up at the ceiling.
Until his eyes close, . . .
I should have broken his fucking neck.
. . . and he goes to sleep.
I was so happy he had stopped the abuser.
Anyway, thanks for reading.
Everybody appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like.