Rika, the Cuban Flame

25. Dear Journal...

Rika

I find the journal entry where I met Lucas for the first time and snatch that notebook out of my locker. I'll start there. There has to be some valuable information in these journals that can assist me in locating him. A clue, a town name, an address, anything that can point me in the right direction. I've never really prayed before, but I'm willing to try it if it can offer me any help. If I decide to approach the university police, I'll need evidence to show that he's in some sort of trouble. If I opt for the actual police station, I'll need, at the very least, the name of the town.

In this entire gym, there's only one punching bag that I have the urge to hit. It's the same punching bag that Lucas was using the night we first met. I pause in front of it and carefully place the journal on the mat beside me. I sit down and begin wrapping the tape around my hands and feet. Then I stand back up and hold the journal in my left hand, never taking my eyes off of Lucas's elegant handwriting. I throw a powerful kick at the bag and the top of my barefoot collides with it, causing the bag to sway back and forth. My eyes stay glued to the journal and I spin around to deliver a roundhouse kick. The impact of my kick resonates with a satisfying thud. I throw more punches. I throw more kicks. But those aren't my focus, as my true focus is the journal in my hand.

Dear journal,

I met someone today. A flame. At least that's what she likes to call herself. The Cuban Flame. It's pretty, and it's someone I even like watching fight. She's just as much of a bitch in-person as she is on the screen. She called me pale. She made fun of me, saying my form was all wrong. And of course it was all wrong! I don't know how to fight. Lame of her to point that out to me, though. Low blow, Rika. She offered to help me, but I refused. Why the fuck did I refuse?! Am I stupid? That was Rika! Ugh, Lucas, you stupid motherfucker.

Sunlight... She was right. I need it.

She almost hit me. She was going to hit me. She WANTED to hit me. I could see it in her eyes. To her, I was just another poor bastard who snuck into the gym when no one was looking, despite her papa letting me in. Poor me. My jaw aches a bit, but you know what? I WELCOME IT. That's the most fun I've had in the entire four fucking years I've been at Preston U.

His handwriting changes for his next journal entry. It becomes more sloppy and Lucas struggled to stay in the lines when writing. I keep my eyes fixed on the journal, throwing three full-height head kicks at the punching bag and turning the pages whenever necessary.

Dear journal,

RIKA BROKE MY FUCKING ARM. It fucking hurts. It's hard to write even if it's not my dominant hand. It's bruised. It's contorted... hyper-extended. That's me studying for the fucking night since this pain is unbearable. I can't go anywhere. I have no insurance. Family won't help me. My dad is useless now. Holy fucking shit, how is my luck this bad?

That bitch! I have everything to lose! She's fucking famous. What a goddamn piece of fucking shit Rika is. God, I hate her. I thought she'd be cool, but then she fucking does this. It was... what's the word, exhilarating? To spar with her despite what happened. Ugh, I hate myself for thinking that.

The next paragraph is illegible. I can't make it out, so I have to skip that part but I recognize the hashtag in the paragraph that follows.

I'M TRENDING ON SOCIAL MEDIA. #PREMEDBONER. Oh, my God... the videos are everywhere. Me in an armbar. Me in a rear-naked choke. Me in the... what the fuck is this even called again? I have to search for it. The kinniku buster? Muscle buster? Same shit it looks like. WHY DID SHE HAVE TO USE THAT? I'M FULL FRONTAL HERE, RIKA. God, go back and crawl into the octagon and stay there.