Between Reel and Reality (Lesbian Romance)

Chapter Three: Reflecting

You said you was different
Started off as close friends
Now we can't even be friends
Got me on my defense, got me on my
Got me on my mean shit

- Jastin Martin, Miss Me Yet?

AMEL

Tears of elation gather in the Eagles' eyes as they hoist the Lombardi Trophy under the dazzling stadium lights. Collecting a transcendent token, irreclaimable by others, is like clutching a ray of sunshine in your meager human palms. Even after eight years, triumph everlastingly glimmers from my essence, originating from the night I conquered Vera "The Sniper" Smirnov. Prior to our iconic featherweight championship clash, the Russian incessantly voiced doubts about my expertise and launched personal attacks at every media event.

You see, ole girl didn't know I've been discredited since a youngster. I dealt with niggas joking about my "janky ass clothes," "dyke ass behavior," and "faggot ass uncle" without losing a lick of confidence. I'd be a black-ass fool to let a white woman fuck with my head.

Instead of falling into her trap of aggression, I responded to her negativity with unbothered and comical responses. Endorsement deals, fans, and the crown of the beloved underdog fell upon my temple. I had every non-racist in America's support, which ripped at Vera's insides. The gaping void cratered within her craved to entice me, desperately demanding to strike a sensitive spot. Determined, she spewed condescending remarks on a bigoted podcast.

HOST: Everyone's Team Stunna, whatever that name means, but I personally believe you'll continue reigning as the WMAL Women's Featherweight champ, Sniper. Stunna has fought for roughly two years. But, in my opinion, I don't think she has the credentials to challenge you.

CO-HOST: I hate to play devil's advocate, but she has won every fight by knockout since going pro.

HOST: Yes, but those matches were against contenders below Vera's caliber. I can list at least three women who should be fighting for ownership of the belt that's not St—I'm sorry, the thug nickname is just ridiculous. What's her real name? Imani?

CO-HOST: Amen, I believe. (keyboard clicks) No, sorry, it's Amel.

HOST: Even worse! You're laughing because it's true, Sniper. The World Martial Arts League is only giving her a chance for one reason, if you ask me.

THE SNIPER: (fake hesitant sigh, followed by a condescending Russian accent in broken English) Stunna, good fighter, but not ready for championship shot. Big shame, truly. Poor girl, lots of bad luck—both parents die, she watch and survive. Trouble always follow her, da? Very sad, very unfortunate. I do not want to teach inferior, ghetto orphan baby lesson in octagon. But WMAL thinks she is ready. I hope she survives after I show why she not.

HOST: Whoa, shots fired, guys! (shotgun sound effects) Somebody grab a body bag.

CO-HOST: (chuckling) Dude, too soon.

Their laughter pierced my eardrums, igniting a primal fury within. Not content with merely ridiculing me, they callously trivialized my momma's tragedy—a blameless soul undeserving of their scorn. In each match, I harbored no ill will toward my competitors. Boxing initially served as a high-impact outlet, a means to grapple with both grief and relentless bullying. Mastering every boxing technique, I evolved, assimilating martial arts disciplines until I emerged as an invincible, lethal force. While my matches frequently ended with knockouts, my aim wasn't to cause destruction; rather, it served as a means to unleash my suffering. As The Sniper's maniacal laughter and malicious taunts reached me, a hunger to unleash unparalleled terror upon her consumed my thoughts like never before.