Dean set down the crystal tumbler with a
heavy sigh. It was empty, but his throat still burned with the scotch. His room
was dark, as was the rest of the gym, except for the single neon sign that glew
red and yellow in his office window.
“Dean
& Mort’s Gym” it read.
Most days, he would chuckle when he read
the sign. Not tonight though. Not with the man across the desk.
Normally, if someone asked about the name,
he might recant the tale of how he and his friend Mort were so desperate for a
place to box, that they went out and opened a gym of their own. He’d tell them
how people started to show up just to watch them train with each other. Family
and friends at first, but soon they had to charge admission and were putting on
little boxing matches of their own.
Depending on who the person was, Dean might
go into more detail for them. He’d tell them about how he was the heavier
hitter but Mort was tougher. He could never stay on the mat no matter how many
times Dean put him down. Every time he went down, Mort would jump right back
up. Every time…except once.
“That one time.” Dean would say. “That one
time it was all my fault…” his voice would trail off quietly. Theatrically. “I
saw the opening and I took the swing. I wasn’t really looking. Wasn’t thinking.
I caught him square in the temple.”
Most
people stopped asking after that.
A few brave souls might want to know more.
They’d listen to his voice crack as he told them how he tried to get Mort back
up. How he screamed for a doctor or an ambulance, but by the time the men in
white had arrived, it was already too late. Then he’d go on about how he took
off his gloves and hung them up that very night and how they still hang in his
office today, soaked with the blood of his only true friend.
No one ever wanted to know more after that.
Not one except the man across the desk from
Dean.
“What would you tell them?” the man asked
Dean. “Would you tell them the truth or more of the story that you’ve practiced
so well?”
“Would you tell them about the money on the
fight? Or about the offer from the loan sharks? Would you tell them how you
sold out your friend for the cost of a debt?”
“No.” he said to the man. “I would tell
them I made an awful mistake.”
“Some would argue pre-meditation doesn’t
allow mistakes, only regret.”
Dean had no response.
His eyes drifted to the sign in the window.
The neon flicked and buzzed. A constant drone that Dean had long ignored but
now sounded ten times louder than ever.
“You’re right, of course. I thought it was
the right thing to do.” Dean said. “The business wasn’t failing but it was built
on a snake’s nest of bad investments and back alley deals. There was never
enough money to pay back the sharks.”
“It’s funny. When you think that you’re
looking death in the eye, you do some crazy things.” Dean said with a hollow
chuckle. There was no happiness in that sound. It was a low, deep thing that
sounded more sinister and sad than truly amused.
“Irony.” Dean said, shaking his head.
“So tell me,” the man continued. “How would
you make it right?”
“The gym never belonged to me. Not me
alone, anyway. That was my only real mistake. As you pointed out, plenty of
regrets…but only one mistake. I should have been the one to take that punch.”
Dean felt his guts twist into a knot as the
man across the desk rose from his chair. He knew what was coming. He deserved
it. He’d always had. Yet he didn’t have the stones to see it coming. Instead,
he turned in his desk chair so that he could see his gloves hanging on the
wall. They were ugly and old and still splotched with his friend’s blood.
“Before you finish it.” Dean said quietly. “Just
one more thing.”
“And what’s that?”
“Can you forgive me for what I did?”
“No.”
The police didn’t find Dean’s body until
the next evening. A concerned regular had called in when he happened to look in
the office window and saw Dean with his head caved in, slumped over in his
chair. They cordoned off the area, checked for prints, and did what they could,
but never found any evidence that pointed to the killer. After a few months of
searching, they gave up.
The building is still there though. The
landlord has tried to sell it, but no one ever wants to buy. There always seems
to be the smell of blood and the sound of blows landing whenever you’re in
there late at night. No one dares stay another night.
And so it sits. An empty old gym with a half
burned-out red and yellow neon sign hanging in the window of a dumpy little
office.
“Mort’s
Gym” it still reads today.
(Hello Lovelies. I hope you enjoyed today's little flash fiction. I was challenged by my friend to try out a writing prompt that she herself was working on. "Write a ghost story 1000 words or less that involves a neon sign." It was a fun little experiment for me. Personally, I think it might have come out a little too dark and broody, but I'd love to hear your opinions!)
