The Search for Gemma Rox
“Dear Gemma,
Wherever you are in the United States, I hope this letter finds you. I’ve been waiting for months for you to come back and you haven’t. I still remember that night when you told me you had some personal business to take care of and sat your lying arse on the bed next to me and said you weren’t going to leave me. You and I had business; you were supposed to help me. And the next morning, you were gone. I thought you may have just gone to the store or to the gym or to your job, but here it is, all these months later, and you still haven’t come back to Cardiff… or at least, you haven’t come back to me.
That’s what you don’t understand. You are so compassionate that you become inconsiderate and don’t even know it. You think that by removing yourself that you’re helping me, helping everyone you come in contact with, but you don’t consider how your actions affect the people around you, how what you do in the name of self sacrifice causes others pain and suffering. And Gemma, since you left, I’ve been suffering like never before. But that’s about to change.
With love that bleeds,
Tyler”
Sometimes, you let people tell you things, like you’re a piece of shit or a whore or a nobody… you believe it and you act that way. And it’s not that it depresses you; shit, it’s easy to be what people say you are because you never have to try to be something else. You can be a piece of shit; you can be a slut; you can sit on your arse and do nothing for the rest of your life, live off your parents and live on the internet or whatever the fuck works. And you can force yourself to be so stupid, that when you get old, you actually think your life was about something other than the same ordinary bullshit. Well, you can say I’m a combination of both. When I don’t want to do anything, I don’t, but my life isn’t ordinary at all.
My mother used to beat the shit out of me when I was a child… relentlessly. My father left the house when I was very young; I had an older brother and two older sisters and my mother beat us all. So, my sisters would beat on me and my brother would beat on them, until I was old enough for him to start beating on me. It’s a wild, wild life, you know? I put up with this shit, then I go to school and I’ve got all these bitches picking on me and beating me up. All I knew how to do was take an arse-kicking. All I knew was the taste of my own blood and eating dinner or sipping tea with busted lips and missing teeth. That was who I was and it wasn’t ordinary, but it happens more often than you think. As I got older, my sisters had kids and they dumped them on me. When I should’ve been going out dating guys or enjoying my teen years, I was at home watching my nieces and nephews because I didn’t know how to say “no.”
People in my so-called family would treat me like a fucking prop or an appliance and wouldn’t get off their lazy arses to take care of their own fucking businesses and responsibilities. If I needed to breathe, they wouldn’t give me a fart. I’ve never had a birthday party… never. When I turned eighteen, I ran away. I had gotten be about a little over 5’6” and 120 lbs. My blonde hair had grown long and I had my father’s soft blue eyes and my mother’s big boobs and smooth stomach. I’d hide out and during the daytime, I’d beg on High Street or Duke Street until I got ran off. I have a warm smile and that’s coming from a heart full of pain, so people saw me and gave to me, even though if I magically had a change of clothes and a BMW, I’d look like someone else. I’d sneak into St. David’s Hall, watch ballet and opera, and dream of something better for me. But I was nothing… always nothing… eating out of garbage cans, living with different men and doing them favors just to get food… I had no fighting spirit and I didn’t realize my fighting instincts… until I met you, Gemma.
I can’t say what happened or how I got in the position I was in. I just knew I was being jumped in some spot near Cardiff Castle one night. Three girls were beating me up and I didn’t know why and I didn’t care… maybe I got blindsided; maybe I was drunk and was running my mouth; maybe when one of them wasn’t looking, I stole something from her. I don’t know; I just know they were beating me up. I can remember the first time I saw you… well, maybe not quite like that. You were a blur of a gray hooded sweater and blue jeans. The punches were fast and the girls went down. I thought you had killed them and when you reached down for me, I screamed. I thought death had finally come to get my arse and you were it. When you pulled that hood back and I saw that dyed blue hair and those big brown eyes, I still was terrified. You spoke with an easy voice and the same accent I have and I noticed that you acted like me being turned off by you wasn’t a big deal. But you didn’t understand that it wasn’t about you, Gemma. Just about everybody I’d ever known had fucked me and left me low. How could I trust you? How could I know that you weren’t gonna finish what those bitches started? Not that I had a choice, if you remember, I passed out… I know I passed out because I don’t remember how you got me to your apartment.
I don’t remember our first conversation that well because I was loopy from the pain pills you gave me and loopier from all the alcohol I’d been drinking. I just remember spilling my guts to you and you telling me that you were bringing me to the gym with you the next day because you figured those girls would be after both of us now and you had to take care of me. That’s what you told me, Gemma. You told me you were gonna take care of me, you fucking liar. But now, I don’t need you and I’m gonna show you. Wait for it… I remember meeting your trainers and doing these hard drills you did. I was shy and humble and afraid of everything I saw and you tried to make it easier by being so nice, but the gym attitude scared me. Seeing people beating one another up… even with pads on or in a controlled setting… it was hard to watch because it reminded me so much of home.
I still came to the gym with you and I kept getting asked if I was going to be a fighter… that’s what you were, though you didn’t bother to tell me. I could figure it out; shit, a blind man in a pitchblack padded cell could see that you knew how to fight. Now, your hair was red and when you sweat, the dye would run down the back of your neck like somebody had hit you with an axe. I’d love to hit you now, Gemma. Hit you for introducing me to this world and for making me love it so much. Aerosmith sings “I was the last child, just a punk in the streets.” That’s what I was; those girls could’ve killed me, but you saved me only to kill me again. After a while, I could watch you hammer the speed bag and heavy bag; you were just a little ball of energy. I’d lick my lips longing to try it, but we’d go back to your place and talk about life. That’s how I got to trust you; you told me about your relationships with your own family and how your own friends had betrayed you. We had exchanged stories of barroom brawls and I told you how much I love rugby, but that I had a hatred for the home team because of how seriously people take the sport. I’d seen a girl get a good portion of her hair ripped right out of her head by male rugby fans. Cardiff is a beautiful city, full of culture and all that other stuff, but I was familiar with the cold dark side that you’ll find in every city or in every shadow on this planet, but what I‘d realized was that even in broad daylight, there was chaos and violence. So, I started seeing the gym as not being a place that reminded me of home… home was everywhere because there was pain everywhere. I knew that from way back when reading history and getting picked on for it. And then one day, you threw me in the fire.
The first day, you had me doing everything you did like I was a professional boxer or mixed martial artist. Forty minutes of upper body work; you taught me how to throw a jab, double jab, left hook, a right cross, how to switch stances… and everyone was so supportive. You had me on a treadmill and you always talked about building up stamina, but you always made some smart remarks about me worrying that my boobs won’t be there when I get off. But I was changing, the culture was getting to me, Gemma and I have you to thank and blame for that. Remember when you saw my first tattoo? You didn’t even know I had gone and gotten it. I was studying you Gemma; my wounds were healing up and I would watch the way you acted very closely, especially when you didn’t want to be bothered, and I would go out by myself and imitate you. You should see how many tattoos I have now, Gemma; my entire back is one big portrait of a red dragon fighting a silver fox in the middle of hell. The flag of Cardiff, as you know Gemma, has the red dragon on it, like many of the flags of our nation; the silver fox… well, that’s me. And hell, that’s everywhere I go. I hated Cardiff because of the way those people treated me and while I claim Cardiff as my home town, I was born in Manchester. That tattoo is me fighting that evil beast that lies in all of us here in this shithole world; it’s in me too. But more personally, and since I got it after you abandoned me, that’s me fighting you. You’re the dragon in red, Gemma; I’ve seen you wear that in almost all of your fights, except for those times when you wear green… blood red. And do you want to know who designed that tattoo? I did; you’re an artist, so I started painting too. I just had to find someone good enough to put it on my back… so, I went with your artist.
I remember I got the butterfly around my perfectly round deep innie navel as my first tattoo and you made a joke and said it was girly. My stomach was smooth and working out with you was getting it toned, but it was as sensitive and still is as sensitive as my feelings were back then. You hurt my feelings with that comment, Gemma because you didn’t bother to ask me why I got it. I didn’t ask you why you have two skulls on your breasts or why you kept dying your hair different color, you indecisive arse bitch. That was my first day of sparring and I got to spar with you and you hit that spot with your jabs over and over again until I went down. You kept telling me to fight back, but you had done so much for me and I didn’t want to hit you. Every time I saw you get hit, whether it was in sparring or in one of your fights that I went to, I heard you make a loud noise and curse. Gemma, I felt every punch, kick, head butt, slam, every shot you took, I felt it. But you never asked me why I got that tattoo; I was trying to be like you and you mocked me for it. Every tattoo on my body is symbolic of something and the navel is where we all begin and grow from. The barbed wire Star of David slicing through a bloody and broken swastika on my left arm represents my Jewish heritage. The tattoo of the poker chip on my right shoulder is obvious, but below it is the white hawk carrying the black snake symbolizing that the pure excellence in me will carry the dark views and fears others have of me. I have more, and when I find you, you’ll see them… in particular, the letters on my knuckles… “love” on my left knuckles because my left arm extends from my heart and “hate” on my right knuckles because when I strike someone or place my hand over my heart to pledge, I am using my hate to cover my innocence. I wonder would you even care if I told you these things or would you freak out at the sight of me and wonder what I’ve done to myself.
Before you met me, I was a caterpillar; I had no place and no purpose and I lived in a shell of laziness and idleness and indifference… now, I was reborn as a warrior and I felt beautiful. That’s why I got a butterfly and that’s why I put it around my navel. And because I liked you and respected you and wanted to show you that I was learning, I got it. But you mocked me and I wanted to cry, but like I said, I had been observing you and I knew how to hide my tears in sweat. And once you started teaching me submissions and slams, there were plenty of nights I was stretched out on the floor with your legs wrapped around my waist that I had to hide those tears. Yes, I whined and moaned in the gym in the beginning and you and the others would tell me about being tough and having heart and you’d remind me of where I came from and how far I’d come. I remember plenty of evenings you would stand there with your arms behind your back daring me to hit you, almost begging me to hit you and I just couldn’t do it. And you’d jab me to the stomach a few times and I’d double over, wrapping my arms around your waist and surrender. You’d call me a wimp; you’d say I wasn’t a fighter; you’d keep asking me why I kept coming to the gym with you. And I took your punches and your slams, but I learned that I could take more and more punishment and then that day came. You threw a hook, I weaved around it, and I landed one of my own right to your liver. Do you remember that… I do. I remember that noise you made when my fist hit you and the way you looked at me with pain and then that delayed reaction. Down goes Gemma. I remember how long it took you to get up and usually, I’d help you and nurse your wounds. But I let you lay there… and I made sure you saw the smile on my face.
You got up and we went fifteen rounds that day, and I won every single one. I put you down six times, all with body shots and the way you tortured my stomach had nothing on what I did to yours. I loved hearing you groan, Gemma. I never saw you look more beautiful than you did at my mercy when I took you down and put you in the cross faced crippler… the move you taught me. I used your own holds against you and I beat you, Gemma. I think you learned something about me that day because I took all your punishment and you assumed I hadn’t learned anything or that I didn’t want to learn, but I learned how to take down Gemma Rox. That night, I looked into your eyes as we sat on the couch. The conversation started out innocently enough and I knew how you liked to bring up beating a more experienced fighter over and over again to that fighter, so I started telling you that I beat you. But being the type of girl you are, you wouldn’t fully admit it. So, I gave you a little jab to your stomach and you gave me one back and we started wrestling on the couch… then, we fucked. I would even go as far as to say that the foreplay ended once we fell off the couch and wound up on the floor.
The next morning, I told you I wanted to be a fighter. You told me I needed a name, but I hadn’t thought of one yet. I can tell you that I found one now, but you probably already know that. I didn’t know too much about boxing or mixed martial arts until I met you, but I knew rugby, and my favorite rugby player played for France‘s Biarritz. He was “The Silver Fox” Philippe Bernat-Salles and, I dyed my hair silver and never looked back. I can’t wait for you to see it, Gemma. It’s funny, because there’s a deeper meaning to that name, but an accidental one as well. I’m Jewish and I thought the color silver represented redemption, something I certainly could identify with, but that was a mistake of me being young and misinterpreting what I had read in the Torah. The fox is me for sure; no pickpocket or beggar could exist without some cunning, and being as sweet and innocent looking as I am added to that. I am a mistake in a lot of ways, but I am “The Silver Fox,” though you know me as Tyler. I loved you more than anything, Gemma. If you asked me to kill myself, I’d have done it back then because you created me… you brought me back to life. We spent one more week together before that night you told me you’d be back. I woke up the next morning and you were gone. Then, I went to the gym… I went to the bars… I went everywhere looking for you and I never saw you in person again. But I saw pictures of you with some short girl with spiky white hair… and she wasn’t the only girl I saw you with… or guy. I turned on the television and I saw you on that reality show, The Ultimate Catfighter. I saw all those youtube videos of you getting beaten up. You had left me to go all the way to the United States. You had left me to get your arse kicked when all you ever told me was to never let anyone kick mine without putting up a fight. You had left me to win some stupid competition when you told me that I had to fight to survive. You told me to appreciate and learn to love my surroundings when you know how much I hate Cardiff and then, you go run to America and leave me? You fucking hypocritical bitch.
All those talks we had about relationships and betrayals and being committed… us against the world, remember that? No… you probably don’t, because just like you laughed at my butterfly tattoo, you’re probably laughing at me now… or you’ve forgotten about me. Well, I’ve got a surprise for you, Gemma. I’m coming to get you. And it starts tonight. I’m thinking about you right here in my dressing room at the O2 Arena in London. I have on a silver lycra two piece and silver boots. I stand up and I move to the entry way. The fire in me is building… you can’t stop it once it gets started, Gemma. “Shitlist” by L7 starts playing and here I come. Flash-forward and here she comes. “California Girls” by David Lee Roth… stupid shit. This girl is 5’10” 140 lbs and has a great reputation in Japan… auburn hair, aqua blue eyes, undefeated and known for making big comebacks after slow starts… name’s Kathy Oasis, looks just like Kathy Ireland in her lucky green two piece lycra outfit and white boots, big smile and waves (Kathy was also featured in my story “Writer‘s Block”). Everybody loves her. She’s going to the big time, Gemma. She’s going where you are now… OPW, the biggest fighting federation in the world and with an owner who’s buying up all the small ones and using them for developmental territories. I wish I could’ve won some chickenshit contest to get a multimillion dollar contract with them. But if I put in an application, you may have told them that I was girly and soft, right?
I’m supposed to be a stepping stone. I’m 15-0, but I’ve only fought girls on the local level, certainly nobody this big… well, I did beat Gemma Rox. Bell rings and she comes out with her arms raised high and bouncing around like a big rabbit. My arms are low and my legs are bent. Kathy’s primarily a kick boxer, but this a cage fight and I eat a jab and right hand and already my nose is bleeding. When you get in a fight, you gotta expect to get hit, right Gemma. Kathy circles and gets me with a right hand below the ribs on my left side, but I duck under the second right and land a left hook to her liver and an overhand right to her chin. She lets out some girly moaning and she staggers backwards. I leap in and throw a left hook that crashes into the side of her head and she’s flat on her back. I jump on her and throw a hard forearm to her chest… right on her heart and the ref pulls me off. Somebody should’ve told Kathy; there’s no standing eight count in these sorts of fights. No comeback kid shit tonight. I look at the crowd and I know they are in shock; I was supposed to lose. I was supposed to give Kathy some MMA experience, but I didn’t follow the script… I knocked her bunny arse the fuck out, Gemma and because she’s so popular, this was a televised fight, so I hope you were watching it online whether you are in the United States. But that doesn’t matter because this is only the beginning. I hope you’re ready for me, Gemma. I hope you’re training hard, saying your prayers and eating your vitamins because I’m coming for your arse.
The reporter comes up and tries to ask me a question, but I go Rocky Bolboa on him.
“Gemmmmmmmmaaaaaaaa!!!!! Gemmmmmmaaaaaa!!!!!! Gemma Roxxxxxxxx!!!!!!”
I scream and cry and try to jerk the microphone away from him. I don't bother to talk about my preparation for the fight or if I thought Kathy could be me or if I was offended by her getting all the hype... but that’s all I needed. Somebody’s gonna tell you about this; your friends are gonna start talking about me. They’re going to ask you about me and if I know Siena Blaze like I think I do, she’s going to sign me to a developmental deal and put us in the cage together one day, Gemma. And if she doesn’t, you can bet I’m coming to America to get you regardless. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, and you’ll be doing it flat on your arse because you’re gonna know that I haven’t forgotten how you left me with this sick twisted feeling inside that no amount of ass-kicking I deliver will quench. You see… all this time after you left me, I’ve been searching for you. But I just realized that I’ve had Gemma Rox inside of me all this time. I am Gemma Rox, the part of her that she exiled because it was too fucking hardcore to deal with. That’s why you left, right? You saw the darkness in me; you saw what I was becoming and you knew that you have ripped that darkness out of you and had given it to me that night on your apartment floor. And as soon as you gave me that part of you that you could no longer confront, you ran away to fight weak ass bitches like your friend Jonica, and overrated shrimps like Marie B… Hey Gemma, now who’s soft?
See you soon...
