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I wish I was huge.
Six feet tall, 20-inch biceps, a furrowed brow that scared away even the bravest of men. Clenched fists that could punch holes in plaster walls and knuckles covered in scars from previous fights.
A leather-clad body to match the motorcycle that sat under the tarp on his driveway. Facial hair that made women swoon and eyes that twinkled with life and fire and passion. Three things that seemed like a distant memory now. He would pull on his gloves, over fingers decorated with sterling silver rings, and wouldn’t care when his apartment door slammed on the way out. Tonight, he’d say to himself, I’m going to DJ, then get drunk, then get laid. A back alleyway or her bed- I’ll take either, it doesn’t matter to me.
He’d come home at 4am, ignore the pile of dishes sitting impatiently by his sink, and sleep ‘til noon.
I wish I was scary.
Only God could count how many bars he’d been banned from by now. Whether it was for starting fights, ‘accidentally’ forgetting to pay, insulting the staff; there were very few places left where he could visit freely. He didn’t let that stop him. He’d ride away on his bike to the next town over, make a few friends and enemies here and there, move on the next week. It would become a routine.
Exes would bite their lip with their finger hovering over the ‘send’ button. Wanting to ask him to come back. They couldn’t live without him, they’d say, he’s perfect for them. But then they’d remember how he could shout and throw things and they’d just hold the backspace button until the text box was clear and try again to block him from their lives.
Children would cower away from this man, with his permanent scowl and tattoos decorating his forearms. Parents would take one reluctant look and step to the side as if he needed extra room to pass. And he would just grunt and purposely barge past them, not giving a shit about street etiquette, entire demeanour a huge fuck you to anyone who would dare challenge him.
I wish I was bad.
Twin red horns that pieced through the skin of his temples. A sneer that made shivers run down spines, a manic laugh that bounced of walls and ceilings and the beer-stained carpet of his living room.
Check out this guy, people would say. Look at how cool he is. How hot he is. But stay away, don’t come too close; underneath the exterior is a tongue that drips with venom and a heart that has closed off from empathy and kindness. It closed off a long time ago.
He’s a bad guy, people would say. Interesting, if he lets you get close enough, but that rarely happens. Stay away from him. Admire from a distance. Don’t do anything to hurt him.
I wish I was a monster.
He would chew rocks for breakfast and file his nails into a sharp point. He would laugh at charity advertisements and step on daisies. Smash antique vases and break classroom pencils straight in half. Grow thorns from his fingers, spines on his shoulders, yellow eyes that glowed with malice and chaos. Smash a mirror and dare bad luck to follow him, all while dragging the shards across his flesh and screaming, telling people to stay back, to fuck off, that he was crazy and he wasn’t afraid to show it.
No-one would try to hurt him then. No-one would dare to step near this creature, this deranged man. This 6-foot giant who laughed through pain and wouldn’t hesitate to step on everyone who pissed him off.
But… he wasn’t.
He wasn’t big, nor scary. He wouldn’t describe himself as ‘bad’ and the only one who thought of him as a monster was himself.
I wish I wasn’t so easy to hurt.
He frowned at his reflection in the mirror, turning this way and that, eyes wandering from acne-covered cheeks to the bruises that wrapped around his feet and ankles. Everything hurt. His body, his head, his heart; America had been good to him so far, had helped with his skating, but God he wanted a break. Just a week or so to lie in bed and stare at walls and… fuck, he didn’t know. Wallow.
But that was probably just the depression talking.
With a sigh, he pulled his sweatpants and shirt on again, thinking it best to hide his body behind fabric to avoid scrutinising himself further. Life of an athlete meant that it was very difficult to be happy with one’s body. He was finding that out the hard way.
The entire situation was fucked up, really, and the deep-rooted craving to be scary and bad disgusted him. Of course he didn’t really want that, he didn’t really want to hurt others and make people cower away. But a lifetime of being seen as not enough, being stepped on or brushed aside… it got to him. It sunk in deep. He didn’t have as much support and resources as others and although he fought to get passed those obstacles, they were obstacles nonetheless.
People had hurt him, physically and emotionally. School bullies who teased him for being small and laughed at his acne as they threw him against lockers; ex friends who couldn’t deal with his awkwardness and left him with a heavy heart and a raw longing to just feel cared about. A father who cared about alcohol more than his children. Self-doubt and self-hatred that bound around his ribs like chains.
He was tired of it. He just wanted to protect himself. Which morphed into desires to hurt and scare and those desires made him loathe every tiny thought in his brain.
Plus, he wasn’t exactly good at making friends. Loneliness came as naturally as breathing now- it hurt less when he saw his rink mates hanging out and having fun without him, because he was used to it. Before he may have frowned and wrung his fingers together in a wave of frustration. Now he rolled his eyes and told himself it’s probably for the best, Altin, they’d just end up hurting you.
He’d always follow his own advice and sit in the corner of the rink cafeteria to eat alone.
Things at home weren’t as bad now that his father had left; he saw no new bruises gracing his mother’s jaw when she Skyped him, and the sight of the new sparkle in her eyes lit a fire of hope in his heart. She meant everything to him. Her and his little sister- they were the motivation he needed to keep skating. Win for his country, win for them, make people proud.
Kazakhstan seemed even further away when he thought of them. He ached to go home and have familiarity again, a bed he recognised, eat the cereal that he couldn’t find in the States. Feel his mother’s embrace and breathe in her perfume.
“But you can’t. You have to stay here until your season is finished. And after that, Canada.”
He spat the words at his reflection, angry at the tears that had begun to brim in his eyes. Clenched fists ached to meet the mirror and shatter the image into a thousand shimmering fragments. Just like he did in his daydreams where he was a tsunami of rage and violence.
In reality, away from the delusions, he’d rather tear himself apart than hurt anyone else. And in reality he flinched at the sight of angry men and smiled at people on the street, he wasn’t one to drink and seldom raised his voice. His mother taught him to respect women, not use them, and his growing interest in boys made him think that he’d prefer to keep girls as friends anyway.
He wasn’t bad. He didn’t want to be the alpha male. Wanting to damage those weaker than him made him as bad as his father.
(And that thought hurt most of all).
So instead, Otabek tore himself away from the mirror and decided that he’d much rather be kind and gentle.