Filed from Salem, Oregon · Encryption Level: Severe
I will still bet on her. I will lose with her.
I see her in the ring, blood on her knuckles, defiance in her eyes. Not because she wants the fight—but because it’s the only place she was ever allowed to exist.
I offer softness, knowing she might snarl. I offer silence, knowing she might flinch. I stay, not to rescue, but to witness. To lose beside her.
I know she won’t let me help. I know she’ll refuse the outstretched hand. But I bet on her anyway. Because love is not rescue. It is staying.
Even when the cage is unlocked. Even when she won’t leave.
$30 to the man up front who tells me she has no shot.
“She was born tainted,” he says.
“Raised wrong. Trained to lose.”
“She misses the leash when it’s gone.”
“She wears the chain like a badge.”
“She thinks pain means love.”
“She enjoys the fights.”
He spits prophecy like fact. He doesn’t know her. But he knows the system that made her.
“I thought the leash meant safety. I didn’t know it was choking me.” — anonymous
She was raised in a house where bruises meant attention. Where silence was punishment. Where the leash was love.
She doesn’t enjoy the violence. She enjoys the familiarity. The rhythm of blood. The comfort of red.
She snarls at kindness because kindness feels like a lie. She refuses help because help has always come with a leash.
“I learned to recognize the footsteps. I knew which ones meant danger. I learned how to walk without sound, how to breathe without being noticed. I became so quiet they forgot I was there.” — anonymous
“I flinched when they were kind.” — anonymous
“I wore my bruises like medals. At least they meant I existed.” — anonymous
She will lose. She will not ask for rescue. She will mistake tenderness for threat.
Of course she won’t let me be there for her. I will still bet on her. I will lose with her.