Pearl

The Old Hitter Pit was located in the downtown. It was a scratched away gym where the men would hit punching bags till the late of night, taking out their old and ancient frustrations on a piece of hanging leather.

It was the family business. My father had been a fighter in the thirties. And now he was a trainer. His face was hard and carved with the deepest of wrinkles. He would get up early in the morning, when the sun was just rising, and come back late into the night. That gym was his home. He only had daughters, four girls. Claire, me, Jane, and Sara. At the gym he had sons, sons who he could train to become the best fighters in the world.

I worked there. My father would let me come after school and wash the towels. I would keep the jugs full of icy water. And I would wash the blood off the canvas in the ring. Girls weren't supposed to be at the gym, but my father let me because I was helpful and quiet.

My sisters hated it. Claire despised the smell of old sweat that permeated the entire gray gym. Jane cried at the sight of people getting beaten to a bloody pulp. And Sarah was much too young to understand. I was my father's favorite, to say the least. That's why he named me Pearl, he would say. Perfect Pearl.

Owen Weaver walked into the gym on the hottest day in July. The gym was especially hot and sweaty. I was working in the front register, completely unaware that the boy who had been in my nightmares since I was a little girl had just walked in.

One of the reasons I didn't realize was just because he looked nothing like he used to. He had grown at least another six inches, an amazing feat in itself because he had already been rather tall to begin with. His skin was not as horribly pale, and he seemed to be completely made of muscle.

The only reason I knew who he was was because he looked up at me and I saw his eyes. They were still very blue and still held that veil of guilt.

"Hello. Is Mr. Eugene Wilson here?" he asked me. His voice was very deep, a deep southern drawl. I stood frozen. He looked at my shocked face with a curious expression in his eyes. That's when my father came up behind me and said, "Why are you standing like a mummy for, Pearl? Do you remember Owen Weaver? He's gonna be a mighty fighter!"

"What?" I whispered.

A flash of hurt whispered across Owen's face.

"Excuse my Pearl. She can be pretty silly sometimes," my father said. He threw me an annoyed look and then draped an arm around Owen's huge shoulders.

"You're gonna like it here, Owen. You're gonna be crazy about it here."

My father pulled Owen around and showed him the gym. I stood there, watching in a frozen state. It was like reliving the moment I had shut out from existence in my mind. Owen Weaver and I were the only people to see her drown. But he didn't know that.

I followed the pair around with my eyes. I knew Owen could feel my gaze on him. He looked up several times with an annoyed expression on his face. Stop looking at me, his face said.

Finally, I tore my eyes away from him and looked down at my hands. They were trembling.

My father finally came back around with his new fighter in tow. "Pearl, find Owen some gloves. He'll show me what he can do."

I raced around to the back and rummaged around the cabinets for the correct pair of boxing gloves. My vision was blinded by tears because I was so frazzled and worried. Why? Why had he come back? Why hadn't he stayed in my buried memories?

When I came back, Owen had stripped down to his shorts and was prancing around the ring in agile and fluid motions. I handed my father the gloves, who was standing ringside, but he gestured towards the fighter and said, "Hand them to Owen, Pearl."

My heart sank but I still found myself walking towards him. Owen bent down over the ropes and took the red leather gloves from my hands.

"Thank you, Pearl," he said and ducked his head down a little bit.

I scowled at him. And he merely gave the tiniest grimace in return.

Owen Weaver was a murderer. Owen Weaver was a monster.

And I hated him.