Page 34 of Sucker Punch Drunk Love

“Here, let me get that for you,” I offered, taking one of the handkerchiefs on the table, doing away with the schmer on her lip. Typically, I ignored them, since they were always flapping, but Sierra did have amazingly kissable lips.

“Thanks for treating me.”

“Don’t mention it. I should have taken you the day you won, but I wasn’t sure how sensitive your mouth would be, so be on the safe side, I avoided citrus, but you really can’t avoid it at a Cuban spot. Trust me, it’s hard to enjoy with a busted lip.”

“I think I’m going to go with the disco fries.”

“Jersey staple. Can’t go wrong with that.” While she was still deciding, I called over waitstaff to order a cubano?*, and requested a light on the rum mojito, for her.

“What do you think I can't handle my liquor?” she blushed.

“It ain't about what you can and can't handle. I'm treating you to a winner's banquet, and winners don't drink until they pass out.”

“So, you're treating me like a winner, not your fighter?”

“Won't even call you kid. But be careful what you wish for. You may find you prefer the Josue you know.” I fear that opened the floor for questions, which when she opened her mouth, I was sadly proven right.

“Can I ask you things?”

“Sure.”

“Personal things?”

“Where are you getting at, Medina?”

“I feel like I don’t know anything about you,” she admitted, folding the corner of the menu.

“That’s not a bad thing, Sierra,” I warned.

“But you know everything bad about me. You think Ilikeyou knowing I'm a survivor of domestic violence? I don’t feel any sense of pride admitting that.”

“Honestly, you fucking should. Being a survivor means you got out. The start of my story, not everyone can say the same,” a drop in my stomach weighing me down at even having to recall it.

“Does it have to do with why you ended up in foster care?” hoping I would fill in the missing blanks.

“Sierra, just know, that I’m only telling you this because it explains why I initially didn’t like the idea of training female fighters. I don’t like normalizing women getting hit in the face, or even getting hit atall. It’s just…gosh, I didn’t know how hard it would be saying it out loud,” I spoke with hesitation.

“You don’t have to share it if you don’t want to,” she reassured.

“It gives context, so, fuck it. When I was five, I witnessed my mother brutally raped and murdered right in front of me,” I confessed, the color slowly draining from her face like she saw a ghost.

“That’s…” she stammered, instant regret for having even asked. “I’m so sorry for asking you to relive that.”

“Don’t be. It was so long ago, a part of me can barely remember her face. To be honest, she wasn’t much older than you,” thinking about how she had barely reached any milestones.

“I think at the time, I didn’t fully know what was happening. It wasn’t honestly not that rare of an occurrence in the household. The only difference being that…well, she didn’t wakeup this time.” It was like the light left my voice, even though I’d thought I came at peace with it.

“Did your mother ever get justice?” she wondered out loud.

“If you consider serving three counts of manslaughter, justice. My pops is serving them consecutively, with possibility of parole, but honestly, I don’t even think he’s gonna live that long.”

The subject of my parents was both a desensitized and a touchy one. On one hand, I was orphaned at such a young age, that I'd learned to live without them. But I only had lived without them because of the actions of an extremely insecure man.

“Have you talked to him after he went to prison?” she asked quietly.

“I visited him once. When I was just coming up. Maybe at about nineteen, when I was still questioning things about myself. Honestly, I was just trying to prove to myself I was even strong enough to face him.”

“Were you?”