Chapter 2: “Bruises Inside and Out”
Chapter 2: "Bruises Inside and Out"
I woke up to a symphony of pain. Before even daring to look in the mirror, I reached for my stash, lighting one up to dull the aches that weren't just skin deep. In the background, a boxing match played on the TV, a reminder of last night's fight. I smiled, wincing as my bruised face protested the movement.
As the first light of morning seeped into my room, I made my way to the bathroom, careful not to wake anyone. The moment I caught sight of myself in the mirror, a string of curses escaped my lips. "Fuck," I muttered. My face was a mess, bruises and swelling painting a picture of defeat. "Mi ma is gonna kill me."
At breakfast, the air was thick with unspoken words. My mother's eyes widened at the sight of my face, her hand flying to her mouth. "Marco, mijo, what happened to you?" she gasped, her worry lines deepening.
"It's nothing, Ma. Just part of the game," I said, trying to shrug it off. But her gaze told me she wasn't buying it.
Lucia was at the stove, Sofia perched on her hip. She glanced over and shook her head. "You need to be more careful," she chided, but her eyes softened with sisterly concern.
Carlos clapped me on the back, a bit too enthusiastically for my liking. "Looks like you took a beating, champ. You'll get them next time."
Isabella and Diego peeked at me from behind their cereal boxes, their expressions a mix of awe and disbelief. "Did you win, at least?" Diego asked, his voice tinged with the blunt curiosity of youth.
"I survived," I replied dryly, my thoughts drifting to the moments in the ring I wished I could redo.
The conversation shifted to their daily routines, but I could feel their eyes on me, their concern a tangible presence. I wanted to reassure them, to say I was fine, but the words felt hollow even in my thoughts.
After breakfast, as the kitchen buzzed with the morning routine, Ma pulled me aside. We stood in the living room, away from the others. The early sun streamed through the window, casting a warm glow that contrasted sharply with the turmoil inside me.
"Marco, how are you really doing?" she asked, her voice tinged with a mother's worry.
I hesitated, the words catching in my throat. It was one thing to put on a brave face, to be the laid-back guy when I was high, hiding behind a cloud of smoke and easy smiles. But sober, the raw edges of my frustration and anger were always too close to the surface.
"Ma, I'm… really , Ma, I'm fine. Just a rough match, that's all." I said, avoiding her gaze. The truth was a tangled mess – the depression, the boxing losses, the endless grind at the construction site. And the weed, my secret shield against it all.
She reached out, her hand gently touching my bruised face. "You don't have to hide your pain, not from me. I see it, mijo. But remember, you're a Garcia. You have strength in you, more than you realize."
I wanted to open up, to tell her about the crushing weight I carried, how some days it felt like I was drowning. But the words wouldn't come. Instead, I found myself shrugging off her concern, the mask of the tough, carefree son firmly back in place.
"Thanks, Ma. I'll be fine," I said, forcing a smile. But as I turned to leave, her next words stopped me.
"You're not alone in this, Marco. We're here for you, always."
Those words lingered in my mind as I walked to the construction site. I lit up, the familiar ritual momentarily easing the tightness in my chest. High, the world softened around the edges, my problems retreating into the background, if only for a while.
But as the day wore on, the high faded, and reality crept back in – a reality of physical labor, of a family depending on me, of a life that felt like a constant battle. The anger and frustration resurfaced, a reminder of the fight I faced every day, both in the ring and within myself.
That evening, lying in bed, I replayed the conversation with Ma. Her words, her belief in me, sparked something. Maybe it was time for a change, time to face my battles head-on. But in the darkness of my room, that idea seemed like a mountain too steep to climb.
Sleep came uneasily, my dreams a mix of boxing rings and construction sites, of family and solitude, of a life teetering on the brink of change.