The Colours of a Bruise (a short story)

My first physically published piece

For those who had trouble navigating the clunky way¹ I included a link to this story the first time around, I’ve included it here

But if you’d rather not click around the internet to find it. I’ve added the story itself below.

For context, the theme of this call for submissions was “Stages,” however you want to interpret that. There was a word count of 1500, but in the editing phase this one ending up going a bit over that.

I used the Brazilian Jiu Jitsu belt system to meet the theme and break the story up into different stages.

It’s not my best story. I leaned on an unlikeable narrator who isn’t self-aware—which is a tendency I’m trying to carve out of my writing.

But maybe I’m being too self critical. This is the only one that’s made it across the line so far, so there’s got to be something to it.

Enjoy.

The Colours of a Bruise

White:

A forearm, an elbow, and a shoulder take turns pressing my head against the floor. My teeth compress against my own gums. I taste iron and hear a squeak that suddenly puts me back in primary school again. I’m a pre-pubescent up against the mercy of a post-pubescent. Only, the bully on top of me designed the bridge I commute over each morning and chairs the Greenwich Village Chess Society meetings every other fortnight.  

An unlikely window of space liberates my neck. I sit up and draw in enough breath to register an upward inclined “Sorry!” before a knee embeds stars in my eye socket.

“Our belt system works in stages,” says the man with mutilated ears who just dismissed our class. He gestures to my waistline, “White, blue, purple, brown then black.”

“Sounds like you’re describing the colours my eye is about to turn!” I grin and remove the cold flannel from my fresh bruising.

His chuckle is contrived. “That’ll happen less as you improve. White belt is the most violent stage in some ways because people are still learning to use their bodies.”

I unfold the sweaty bundle of material with deliberate lethargy as I place it in the kitchen’s washing machine. My Grandpop’s eyebrows rise. He’s too stubborn to wear his glasses in the house, but I know if he didn’t clock the Black Triangle stamped on that outfit, he definitely noticed my rouged eye. I shower without exchanging a word with him.

My Gi dominates the clotheshorse like an unaddressed trophy all evening. I know my Grandpop is thinking “Kimono.” I know he’s tracking his years of Judo and has already concluded this will last less than the trial period. He thought the same about business school.   

The guy might have the face of a Johnny Cash song. But it’s as readable as a Peppa Pig picture book.  

Blue:

I never felt the pleasure of the game “mercy” as a child. I was always the nail, never the mallet. Now I have less distain for the boogeymen of my childhood. Part of me understands now. To greet the ex-rugby league player on his first day with a grin. Knowing I’m about to watch his pre-conceptions about physics fall away under my body. To pull on his arm and feel the tap—his call for mercy. We’ve all got a touch of sadism in us given the correct packaging.

The marketers will tell you it’s a humbling sport—and sure, I still take my bitter medicine from the higher belts with a grimace—but for me it’s been the opposite.

I walk the Brooklyn streets with my chest puffed twice as wide. They’ve noticed it at work as well, down at the stock exchange I’m thriving from opening bell. There’s talk of promotions. I’ve got digits in my account that snort at talk.

My Grandpop and I are closer than we’ve ever been. He produced his old Judo black belt after my blue turned up. That ancient thing is so faded it’s almost white again. I love to watch his mitt like hands flit through photo-albums from his competition days. He never spoke a single word of his dreams while grandma was alive—shit we might have said a total of four words a night to each other before I threw that Gi in the washer. But last Thursday he confessed that he always thought he’d open his own gym one day. I guess the bodega took precedence somewhere along the line.   

I’ll never say the lines “I always thought.” I think and I know exactly where I’m headed. They say it takes a decade to earn a black belt—I’m getting mine in five, and one day I’ll start my own gym as a nod to the old boss. One that’s a bit cleaner. One that doesn’t keep giving me all these skin infections. I’m sick of plucking pus filled hairs from my thighs after training.

Purple:

My ears have been spared the mangled, cauliflower texture that my black belt professor wears with pride, but this sport has left other marks on my body. A penny sized scar now stamps the inside of my thigh. That’s a reminder of the six weeks I spent at Mount Sinai.

What started as an infected hair follicle, burrowed a finger length hole into my thigh and sent my ward doctors into hushed tones. Terms like “anti-biotic resistant” and “exponential spread” became unwelcome visitors in our daily updates.

I cheated amputation. So much for a blackbelt within five years though. I couldn’t train for eighteen months after that. That’s almost long enough to reconsider whether colliding with air-headed twenty-year olds is worth it any more. Almost long enough.

I won’t pretend that period was all gloom however. Some heart complications planted my Grandpop in the next ward for almost my entire stint. It was great fun telling him about my new company, the side investments and of course the girls!

I’ll tell you, it’s a lot easier to ask a young sweetie if she wants to come back to your place when you’re talking about a loft you own rather than your Grandpops above store apartment!

Pop loved that. That got him reminiscing about things that in most settings would have you gripping the fabric of your armchair for it to stop!

Who ever thought I’d be here?

It’s humbling. To think I owe most of it to that dorky engineer and his misplaced knee on my first day!

Brown:

Most people who look down at their brown belt for the first time say something like, “I don’t deserve this.” Imposter syndrome, I guess? Building it up into some big thing. Remembering what the brown belts used to be able to do to you when you first started.

I deserve mine. I deserved it two years ago.

Professor Barboza thinks I’ve got an attitude problem though, and a commitment problem to match.

Trust me, I wish I had more time to train.  

But day trader life doesn’t always harmonise with a civilian’s schedule, and if he doesn’t admit money was a part of it, he’s a liar.  

Sure, I missed a couple of my membership payments, but I’ve also been here for nine years! My skill on the mat is part of what you’re selling. No discount for that?

I know what he’s thinking though. See’s my suit, see’s my Merc. Thinks I’m stiffing him. Clearly not familiar with the term liquidity are you vegie ears? I had a deal go bad. It happens. You can’t be in this game for any amount of time without it happening.

Now that I’m out on my own, I’ve got to hustle for both time and money.

I’m not on my own in all senses mind you. Turns out one of those honeys who came back to the loft decided she wanted to stay.

We’ve got a date set in the Bali for a beach wedding. I’m holding my Grandpops invite until I hear back from him on the deal I pitched.

He’s all conservative about risk, I get it. But the guy owns the land his bodega is on. One underwrite, that’s all he needs to do. Passive as professor Barboza when he decides it’s time for one of his students to teach the class on one of his hung over days!

We’ll see. Not holding my breath. He’s getting scratchy in his old age.

Black:

I always assumed my pop would be the one to tie my black belt for me. He’d turn up in his old Judo Kimono. His own black belt on. He’d bow and we’d share a nice teary moment.

For a stretch there, particularly when he had his heart scare, I was worried he wouldn’t be around to see this day. He predicted that himself actually.

“I worked my whole life for this business, and with one coked up trade, you’ve ruined me! You’ve killed me son. You’ve killed me!”

I didn’t kill the old drama queen though.  

He’s alive and healthy. I hear he moved in with some rich widow up in Ohio. I hear he’s secured a lease on an old Judo dojo. Seems to be doing alright. I thought about texting him a photo of the belt, but I know he doesn’t know how to work a phone. It’s better to just leave it.

I got my first black eye since the day I walked into the smell of sweat and vinegar. Full circle ay?

It came courtesy of the wife. She saw a picture on my phone. One of a pair of pants without any belt keeping them up.

I spent next month’s membership getting them all framed. They’ll look so good on the wall. White, blue, purple, brown.

I’m renting now so can’t put nails into the wall. But one day. I’ll get back there.   

Funny to think they’re just strips of fabric. But they’ve made me so much more than I was.

1. I initially sent out an email without the link, then added it later. But the revised version didn’t go out as an email so you would have had to log into Substack to find it.