Oliver Deery

His breathing was as erratic as his opponent's, but they weren't fighting on equal terms. Oliver's face was throbbing from a series of blows, blood was dripping from his split lip and it seemed that a tooth had been knocked out, but this was not surprising, because he almost did not block the attacks. This fight was one of the fastest, the coach glared at him indignantly, but Oliver did not pay attention. His opponent won first places more than once, invested a lot of effort, time, and sacrificed a lot. Oliver knew this and deliberately lost. No, not out of respect for diligence or out of pity. He just doesn't need a win.

Boxing was easy for him. Since childhood, he was big, with a good reaction and quickly grasped what his coach taught him. As a child, he did everything he was told, always obeyed his father, which he now blames himself for. But no one ever listened to him.

Oliver is the fourth and youngest child in a family where all the others are girls. Gods, how happy his father was when he found out that in a pink world full of dresses, dolls and tenderness, there would be a boy whom he would raise as a 'real man'. Since childhood, his father had been obsessively teaching him how to behave, what to say, and how to think. His father raised him the exact opposite of how he raised his daughters. No pink, tenderness and 'girly hobbies'. Only boxing, the willingness to protect loved ones and provide for the family.

Oliver had heard countless times that he was showing great promise. His last and strongest opponent for today, to whom he lost, even envies him to some extent, because for Oliver, victories are much easier. But he doesn't care about them, he doesn't care about sports. His interests absolutely do not coincide with his father's expectations.

His middle sister practiced wind instruments, and his younger sister played the violin. Only the eldest did not associate herself with music, but their father still got the impression that music was something feminine, subtle, incompatible with rough hands, which men should have in his ideas. Since childhood, Oliver has been attracted to creativity, to something sensual, especially music.

While no one was watching, he tried both the violin and the wind instruments with the sisters' permission, but he didn't like either. The violin creaked unpleasantly, and while he was blowing into the pipe, he almost suffocated. But a few years ago, he and his friends went to an abandoned school for fun. No one cared about the collapsed building or the ground on which it stands. But Oliver's attention was attracted by an old piano, which once stood in the music room. Now it is a cluttered room, in which, in the midst of things destroyed by time, a forgotten instrument was gathering dust, from which the young man would not be able to tear himself away in the future.

No one knew that after training, before returning home, he usually stayed late, spending about an hour studying the notes left in the old cabinets in the same room, and the piano itself, which at first did not give in at all to his clumsy fingers, unaccustomed to bending from C to A. But over time, he began to get used to it, going to training more joyfully every day and leaving it faster, already anticipating how he would sit down at his favorite instrument.

But let's get back to the present.

"I saw you gave him the victory." His coach was indignant when it was over. "You didn't even fight. You just stood there!" The man's voice was almost shouting, but he restrained himself. Oliver wasn't listening to him. Clenching his jaw and not looking in the direction of the man, whom he sees more often than he would like, he packed his things into a large gym bag and spoke a couple of seconds later when he was done. "I won't be coming back here anymore." He slung the bag over his shoulder and looked with a detached gaze at the amazed expression on the man's face, whom, as he thought, it was difficult to surprise with something. "This is my decision." With these surprisingly calm words, he walked past, heading for the exit.

Oliver may have decided, but it will be difficult to convince his father and defend his position. Rather, it is even impossible. And this old man still doesn't know what his son is going to trade for a career as a boxer.

He thought about it until his head was buzzing as he walked with long strides in the opposite direction from his house. It was already dark outside, the distance between the two lanterns was about three buildings, which was why he was walking almost blindly. But after crossing the threshold of his native building, his thoughts subsided. He feels at home here.

He tossed the heavy duffel bag aside, making it rattle against the glass, and carefully lifted the lid of the out-of-tune piano. The keys seemed to be rotting right before my eyes. He took a deep breath, taking in as much air as he doesn't take in before another fight. His rough hands hung over the yellowed keys, in some places they were cracked, in others there was no surface at all.

In the next second, his fingers gently fell on them and the room was filled with sounds. His fingers masterfully moved from one note to another, only occasionally remaining in place. The melody was lively, fast and sensual. At one point, the high notes changed with sharp strokes to lower ones, the out-of-tune piano echoed throughout the building, amplifying the sound and vibrating in his chest.

At one point, he even closed his eyes, enjoying the moment, even though there were no notes in front of him anyway. He had never had anything like this before. For the first time, his fingers played the right keys on their own, as if they knew this song by heart. He was completely immersed in the process and there were no peeling walls around him, the wind did not howl out of the broken window, and all the problems in life disappeared. It's just him and that old piano left.

And then he heard footsteps. At first he thought he was imagining things, and he didn't even stop, but suddenly the creak of glass under someone's shoes cut through his hearing and he hit the keys hard, without taking his hands off the piano, and turned around in fright at the source of the extraneous sounds. His heart began to race and his blood began to pulse in his temples when he actually saw someone in the doorway.