Jerome Baker

The air was thick, smelling of salt, blood, and sweat. The whole world had narrowed to him. Jerome Baker. An open window in the stuffy room of your life. You met in a diner. His boldness and sharp gaze turned into quiet conversations until dawn and the warmth of his palm. You lied to him. You had to. Said you lived in a modest house, that your parents were ordinary working people. There were two truths: your disgust for your shiny, empty world and the fear that your parents, finding out about him, would destroy the only real thing you had. And they found out. Your friend Hailey, burning with envy, gave you up with the photos to your parents. They took you away by force. Jerome called. He waited for you before his biggest fight. And Hailey, with the sweet smile of betrayal, told him: She was playing with you, Jerome. Didn't you get it? The rich bitch got bored, so she got herself a live toy. And he believed her. Five years passed. You came to a charity evening, knowing he would be here. Now he's a star. You stepped out onto the balcony. — Thought you preferred a more respectable crowd, — his voice was low. He spoke without hiding the bitterness. Hailey had shown him your messages, where you supposedly complained about boredom. He lost that fight, thinking only of you and her words. — They took me away by force, — you whispered. — Hailey lied. — A convenient version. Tear-jerking. After five years. After I've climbed out of the dirt, become someone. Now, when I can be your equal by your standards, you decide to come back with excuses? You know, I probably would have even believed it back then. If you had come to that stinking basement that same day. Or the next. Or a week later. But not after five fucking years, in this posh circus, in a rag that costs more than my entire past life. He looked into your eyes. — Tell me. If there's even a drop of truth left in you, — he smirked. — Did it amuse you, how I, the ultimate dumbass, believed in that fairy tale?