KNOCKOUT

VIII: BLEEDER

A BOXER WHO GETS CUT EASILY

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ZENON SITS IN SILENCE AND WATCHES sunlight filter in through stained glass panels. The rest of the church is empty—all the seats are vacant and a sort of stillness hangs in the air as light illuminates the space in streaks and particles of dust dance inside the beams, like tiny ballerinas.

She wasn't a particularly religious person in any way, no, and she wasn't trying to atone for her sins either—God knows that's an impossible task she'll never achieve. To tell you the truth, Zenon isn't exactly sure why she's sitting in a desolated church, at five PM, doing absolutely nothing but wallowing in her thoughts. 

It's not like she enjoyed killing that senator—she doesn't enjoy killing anyone. It's just something that needs to be done. That's what she tells herself—that's what Helene's always ingrained deep down in some visceral part of her from a young age. Just do what needs to be done. 

Sometimes, Zenon wonders if anything would be different if her parents were still alive. 

"Hello dear."

Looking up with a start, she's greeted with an old woman looking down at her. An old, grandmotherly type, sporting a long floral skirt and a sweater with a brooch pinned above her breast and a pair of spectacles perched on her nose.

"Mind if I sit?"

Zenon reluctantly moves over, feeling annoyed. Out of all the seats available, why does this woman want to sit here? What does she have to do to get some peace and quiet?

"I usually come in the morning," the woman explains, chuckling to herself. "But my reading group met this morning, and well, we were going to discuss 1984—couldn't miss that! I'm Margo, by the way. Lovely to meet you."

"Zenon." Who was this woman? Are people normally this chatty at church?

"So, what brings you here?"

"I—" Zenon was about to make up a lie but then, what the hell? It's not like she's ever going to see this woman again anyway. "I did something that wasn't exactly . . . morally correct." I poisoned a man's breakfast and killed him. "And I don't think I can find forgiveness for it."

There's a silence. "Well." Margo clucks her tongue. "You millennials are so damn dramatic."

Zenon blinks. "Excuse me?"

"If it's not the world ending, then it's your house catching on fire." Margo shakes her head. "You kids spend so much time complaining about how bad things are, you completely miss your opportunity to make a change." She pauses, thinking. "In fact, you remind me of lot of my grandson." Margo looks at Zenon expectantly.

Zenon doesn't know what to say—in context, it doesn't exactly sound like a good thing—reminding this woman of her grandson. "Uh . . . I'm sorry?"

"Damn straight," Margo humphs. "He's in jail."

Zenon chokes.

"Poor boy—he got caught up with some bad people a few years back. Made some crap decisions that got himself a one-way ticket to prison." She sighs sadly. "He's fixing himself now, trying to get out on parole, but . . . " She turns to face Zenon. "I guess what I'm trying to say, dear, is don't be like him. Don't wait until after you face the consequences to decide to make a change."

Zenon's speechless. She's opening and closing her mouth like a brain-dead fish.

Margo smiles kindly. "I know we're just strangers and I don't know your life story, but if there's anything I learned in my sixty-eight years of living, it's that you don't want to have regrets when you're sixty-eight." She laughs, shaking her head. "Oh Lord, now look at who's being dramatic. You look like a nice girl—you probably just flushed your brother's goldfish down the toilet or something, not committed murder." Margo lets out a big boom of a laugh and then pats her back gently. "You seem like a nice girl," she repeats. "I know you'll do the right thing."