Page 6 of The Breaking Pointe

sudden fate

COLTON

Ever since I was a young kid, I enjoyed nothing more than spend- ing my time exploring my city. I’m bound to my hometown, in every way possible. Just like my father. Staten Island was always where my heart felt the safest. From the smells, down to the sights, it’s simply unique in its own way. Not a single place in New York can change my mind. Living in Brooklyn is about as homey as it gets now.

I can recall one specific time I went out with my dad to see something great. My first core memory of doing something significantly scary as a child.

He took me and my mom to a city fair.

It was the best damn fair out at that time.

It was especially hot that evening, too.

Humid, if you will.

The kind of humid we probably won’t ever feel again, with scents that only feel like nostalgia today.

It’s all very bittersweet to think about now, but I can remember it like the back of my hand. The sky was kind of pink, and my mom wore her favorite orange hoops that always reminded me of the seventies.

They had a Ferris wheel that looked like it could touch the clouds. So of course, I told my dad that I wanted to ride it. And just like that, we did. He always did whatever I wanted. No questions asked. I thought then that it was just an act of bravery, but looking at it now, I think he just wanted to show me he was trying. Although at such a young age, I don’t think I cared. I was too young to identify anything for what it really was.

My mom, of course, was too scared to ride, so it was only my dad and me. It took a while, but when we reached the top, he put my arms up as high as they could go and said, “Touch the clouds, Colton. They feel like cotton.”

Whenever I go anywhere now, and it’s just the right level of humidity, I watch the clouds.

Though I may be like my father in many ways, it’s nothing I care to brag about. What I can confidently say is that I’ve inherited some of the best qualities from the man, so I guess I can accept it partially. I can also say I’m lacking one thing, and that’s his work ethic.

Before my dad had any serious personal issues, he was a working man. Even before being a husband or a father figure.

It was just in his blood. Same for his father and so forth. It’s just “the Kennedy thing to do,”

as he would say. Working was a part of living, and that’s what we were born to do: provide.

I somehow feel that sense with Noelle, and not in the way I felt with Hannah.

I’m not even sure if there’s a specific thing about Noelle that draws me in.

She’s rather nice on the eyes, but then she opens her mouth.

She feels so familiar to me, but I also might be reaching for something much further out of my grasp by allowing one magical night to take over. I know I’m good for letting one little high keep me afloat for as long as I can make it last.

It also could be the weird onset of déjà vu that one gets when they’ve indulged too much.

But that wouldn’t explain the continuous fantasies I’ve had this entire week.

All surrounding our night at the club. It’s the stupidest thing, but something keeps urging me to just call her. If I let the thought of her linger for this long, it must mean something.

This morning, I decide I’m done thinking about doing some- thing about it, and I need to actually do something about it.

You know the part where you wake up and tell yourself that you’re just going to do it and ask questions later? Whatever ‘it’ is to you, you know it needs to get done.

My ‘it’ is calling her and making a way to see her again.

That and training with Trey—our usual Friday evening shenanigans.

Aside from being prideful, my dad ruined any chance I had of ever taking boxing seriously the day I found out he was more in love with substances and other women than anything else.

His dying career was only flashy to me, and not anybody else.

I couldn’t see past him teaching me any moves or his constant complaining until my brother was born.

When Steven came into this world, something set my dad off. Teaching me moves turned into teaching my mother a lesson when she asked too many questions.

And his complaining turned into erratic guilt trips that caused him to break everything in sight and blame us for his downfall.

Now boxing is just something I use to pass the time.

If I don’t think of it as a true career, I don’t have to be compared to my failure of a father figure.

Of course, it makes me money, and that makes me grateful.

I pulled my entire family out of the Staten Island projects pretty early into my success without having to try as hard as my father did.

It almost seemed too good to be true, but I’ve apparently proved myself to be deserving of my ranking. So Trey says.

I like to think that my art is my proper way out.

It’s calming, tedious enough to where it keeps my thoughts under control.

That’s a quality that I’ve luckily inherited from my mother, and I’m proud of it.

I watched her for years as she engraved herself into deep works of art, only for my father to ruin or break it.

Soon enough she had given up, and one day I realized I hadn’t seen her pick up any art tools in months.

Months then turned into years, after my dad passed. I’ll never forgive him, so I can’t fathom how she would.

When I submerge myself into a project, I never plan it.

I get my equipment, and I hop into it with whatever thoughts are roaming in my mind.

Most of my art comes from the view I see in my mind, with eyes closed, and those aren’t appealing views.

They all date back to a time when I lacked any real knowledge of how to cope.

Then again, neither is watching someone end their misery before your eyes while saying you’re to blame.

It’s an everlasting image that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemies.

The day I escaped my childhood home was the day I prevailed in a different way.

I finally felt free, as if I had gotten out of a dark cave with only seconds till my demise.

I bought a large house in Staten for my mother, and a large condo for myself on the highest floor possible.

So high you’d think you could touch the heavens.

It’s a view that anyone in their right mind would die for, but probably not when there’s nobody to share it with.

Though that might sound melodramatic and cheesy, I fully understand it now. It’s become the newest problem I think I’m facing, aside from my mother’s condition. That’s a different problem in and of itself, though.

I carry out the same routine every morning: avoid the thought of loneliness.

My therapist says it’ll do me good.

I’m still awaiting the good, but I can’t say I dislike the orderly conduct of it all.

It reminds me that things have to keep moving, whether I want them to or not.

It ultimately forces me to get up and go. Sometimes it’s just to get up and take a run at the very least, but I’ll get home knowing that I didn’t do nothing.

Despite my loneliness, at least there’s Trey, who’s not only a manager to me, but a friend and neighbor. We’ve known each other for almost seven years.

We met when I started to go to a gym located in Queens, just to see what it was like. After a few compliments and tips on my form, I had no choice but to ask why I should take his input. It was then that he gave me the address to his family’s boxing studio. It was his way of saying I should take my skills to the next level, which at the time, I wasn’t very open to.

It didn’t take him long to sway my opinion after putting me in the ring with a few rookies. I had an immediate ego boost that not even losing two hundred and seventeen pounds could have given me. Up until then, I was still discovering that I could be attractive to anybody at all. Fresh out of college, my body dysphoria was at an all-time high. My athletic skills were the last thing I thought would be my ticket to confidence.

Buying my condo was fully his idea, but I was lucky enough to have it come with a great personal trainer. Trey is like the older brother I didn’t know I needed at twenty-seven years old.

Since then, I never looked back.

Readying myself for plans with Trey, I fumble on my phone while shoveling down my energy drink, staring at Noelle’s name in my messages. I’ve typed out a text that I’ve now spent nearly fifteen minutes contemplating on sending.

Hey, beautiful girl. I had such a good time with you at the club.

Just wish I could see you again.

She read that one already.

Now I was planning on sending yet another.

What else could you possibly say though to get a woman’s attention without scaring her off? If she doesn’t want me, then maybe this is my sign.

Maybe it really was just a good night at the club.

A few knocks on the door abruptly fill the kitchen, sending Bonnie into a barking fit.

“Aye, Colton. Open up, it’s Trey!”

an impatient voice proclaims on the other side of my front door.

Hastily, I gather the rest of my belongings on the counter and place them in my back pocket.

“I’m comin’, relax yourself, my man! The gym is not going anywhere, I promise!”

I raise my voice in response, enough for Trey to hear as I smile to myself. I just know that’ll bug him.

I give Bonnie a quick pat before grabbing my house keys as I head to the door, unlocking it and opening it to reveal myself.

“You’re an ass.”

Trey throws his hands up, chuckling”

Thank you, I’ve been working hard to perfect it,”

I say vainly with a smile as I exit, closing the door behind me.

He scoffs and shakes his head, sided by another chuckle before he says, “Let’s go.”