Lion Wrestler
“Beauty is a fading flower.”
“Take that, you billing bistle. That’s for being such a total and utter nerd, ya,” I hear a thwack, and my body twists and turns in the bushes, stone cold. What are they doing to you out there? Why won’t they leave you alone? I push aside those prickly thorns, not caring that they tear the skin off my fingers and cut into my flesh, and peer into the large yard. It is empty, except for the huddle in the center. My heart thuds, dull and heavy in my chest, as I squint my eyes to see you. Then I close them tight, squirming into the bushes, wishing I hadn’t looked.
Because you, my older brother, my hero, are lying on the floor, hunched into a ball, arms over your ears and head as you try to wrangle your body away from the kicks, the shoves, the spitting. Those bullies, murderers! They stand around, big and muscled, sneering down at your huddled form. One of them is smoking, although smoking is forbidden on school premises. They hit, they kick, they call you names anyone with a little bit of heart would shrivel at. My little heart is filled with such a burning, raging anger, it nearly spews smoke. But it also quivers, watching you like this. My whole being is consumed with this fierce, hatred, then pity, hatred, then pity. I am hot and cold.
They leave you after a while, those tormentors, and then the garden is empty. An eerie silence hovers. I crawl out from under the bushes and step gingerly to where you lie, face down in the earth, tear-streaked and mud-streaked. Wordlessly, I extend a hand, and you pull yourself up. You should be a defeated, old man, but you still carry yourself with an air of grace, even as you limp home painfully.
“How was your day?” I ask blandly, quietly.
You shrug. “Good.” I want to holler, but deep down I am also glad. My older brother, my hero, you would hang onto the shreds of dignity you have left, even if it is in ribbons and being carelessly blown by the wind.
We sit at supper solemnly, staring into our soup bowls. Ma gives you a look fit for cows. “Why you so dirty, Mike? Can’t a twelve-year-old boy take care of his clothing, for goodness’ sake?”
You mumble something, and something in my being bursts. I open my mouth to shout, to yell, to scream out the injustice of it all until it gloops from the ceiling, walls, and table like an egg left to over-boil. Where we’d have to scrape it off, bit by awful bit. You kick me under the table, though, and when Ma turns her back, you draw your eyebrows together and give an almost imperceptible shake of the head. I fall back, deflated, my head throbbing from the impact of my rage.
You would never let me hear you cry, not even muffled sobs, but the way I see your covers heave heavily in the dark later, I know you are crying. I ball my fists and pound the air, again, again, and again. I almost choke from the crashing of rage and pity going on inside me.
I don’t know what makes you get out of bed the next morning, but as you shuffle into your shoes, I am afraid of what awaits you today. You are a lion, my brother, for carrying yourself to school again, backpack on your shoulder, step by slow step. We trudge together, not exchanging a word, you, your eyes on the ground, me, looking straight ahead. We separate at the school gate, and I hurry off, not wanting to see you tread wearily into your battlefield.
Today after school is the worst. After the last teacher leaves, they unleash themselves upon you like a pack of howling wolves. I crouch in the bushes, wishing I could be more like a predator, but more afraid of being a prey myself. You fight bravely, my brother, like a lone warrior with no armor. But you are humane, you have dignity. You are a man with heart, and you are no match for their beastly howls, their dark, evil eyes, their brawny arms.
I catch sight of your eyes in the middle of this battleground. You seem to sense that today is more violent than ever before, and those deep blue eyes hold terror. Your shoulders, which you hold like a nobleman, are tensed and drawn to shield your neck.
I breathe very fast, gulping back waves of things that want to make me throw myself at you, at them, at the world. Things that would make me tear their jaws apart, yank off their limbs, one by one. What have you done to deserve such punishment? Which crime in the universe deserves such daily torture? They are beasts; I want to fling them into the wild.
But I can do none of this. I can only watch this horror movie unfold, unaware that my fingers are clenched around a stem of thorns, the spikes piercing deeply into my skin. The blood drips onto my trousers, but I do not see. My eyes are focused on you, only you.
Fight, my brother, fight. Breathe. Today, you fight for survival; you seem to have a strength I didn’t know you possessed. My lion against wrestlers, you are beautiful even as you throw yourself against them, limbs and bodies thudding sickeningly against each other. You rear up against them; they take you down before you can even draw in another breath. You beat, you pound, you fling your limbs wildly, blindly. But you are not a maniac, drowning in battle: you are a lion, wrestling for your life.
It is a frightening scene, almost revering to behold. I forget I have to blink, to swallow, to breathe. I only know I have to watch my lion, eyes wide open, my jaw clenched tightly.
Then, with a last, heart-stopping thud, I know it is over. There is one last kick from the brawniest one with the gelled hair, and then they flee. You lie, not moving, not breathing.
I think they have killed you.
My mouth trembles slightly, I feel a heaviness in my bones and a sickness in my chest. you lie shriveled, clothing tattered, bloody and bruised on the cold, hard earth. Your hand is stretched out at a weird angle, your hair is matted against your forehead.
Open your eyes, I want to shout, talk to me! Lie to me that your day was good, even if it was beyond the imagination of hell and you know that I know that too. Breathe, just breathe. But the words do not come.
I crouch down beside you and feel your shallow gasps as I tear a blood-encrusted, matted hair away from your face and brush it back gently.
You are battered, you are defeated, my older brother, my lion. And as I kneel by your side, squeezing your hand whilst pity and rage pulse my heart in some sort of horrible game, I think of how beauty is more like a fading flower, which after fluttering in the red and orange hues of sunset, wilts in the grey dusk.
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