2020-12-25
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The Bastard Tyrant

Fighter profile of Ivan Pustansky by Grazi Akbar

‘Tyran’ was not a word in the vocabulary of Ivan Pustansky before he moved to Poland at the age of four.  In fact, he didn’t even realize this word was being used to describe him the first time it graced his ears.  The definition was not important, because acknowledging the existence of another human didn’t seem all that meaningful or relevant.  What need was there to know these words?  It was just another sound.  A sound from another bag of meat.

Through time and repetition, words became more clear and relevant. 

Tyran.  Tyran.  “Jesteś tyranem!!”  There it was again. 

This time the sound caused a flicker in a corner of his brain.  Enough to give him a pause and for a split second he stared at the ground while his neurons fired, connected, and aligned. 

Tyran.

His eyes came in to focus on his own clinched fist and with a few blinks he snapped back into the present moment.  His thumb was turning a strange mixture of white and red as it squeezed against his index and middle fingers.  Behind it he could see pavement and he blinked a few times before turning his head towards the now acknowledged sound. 

The words came in the form of a shriek.  A mixture of fear and anger smashed into a sound reserved for only the direst and most gut wrenching of circumstances.  A mother’s concern for her child perhaps? 

Ivan’s eyes followed his ears as he tracked the sound into his vision.  He saw a woman clutching a boy, both of them experiencing their own forms of pain:  The mother’s was empathetic, while the boy’s was very real. 

“Jesteś tyranem!!!” she wreaked in Ivan’s direction again.  This time he noticed a different emotion in the mother’s voice.  It was desperation.  That was interesting.  Not just because she was experiencing this, but why she was experiencing this.  What was she desperate for?  Desperation implies a sense of powerlessness or a lack of control.  Why would this woman, a mother, be powerless?  She’s an adult and adults are always in control.  Then again, why would she be holding the boy like that?

Ivan looked at the woman’s hands as she held her son- gripping him tightly and holding him to her chest, her shirt now stained with blood from the boy’s nose.  Her hands had developed the same intense mixture of white and red as Ivan’s thumb and fingers from a few moments ago.  He saw the parallels of intensity, adrenaline, and consequence in his hands and the mother’s.  

Then he put the pieces together.

He had caused the desperation.  He was the reason for the fear.  He was the source of the anger.  The mother’s concern for the child was because of the abuse Ivan had inflicted upon the boy.  Maybe adults were not always in control.  Ivan found a way to assume control- even if only for a few moments and even if it was at the expense of the boy and his mother.  The feelings of these meatbags were not as important as what he had learned that day.

Tyran.  Tyran was a word that carried power- and they were talking about him. 

 

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