The sound around us intensifies, alerting my competitor to the possibility that something might be amiss. My fingers crunch as I screw them into a fist. A thousand ghostly punches, pinches and other pains slip into my subconscious as I search for the rage. I let all of the horror of the past hit me in one incredible blow, white-hot anger choking me.
The man rounds on me, his eyes widening at whatever he sees in my face. I don’t give him time to recalibrate. To a roar from those who had bet against me, I lunged at the man, trying to phase out his features. To imagine him as all those who deserved to die. We meet in a renewed clash of fists, both knowing this to be the final moment for one of us. And as much as death holds a tempting peace for me, I cannot let myself sink into its glorious grasp.
He punches.
I dodge.
His left arm hangs limply by his side, not his dominant arm, but a weakness no less.
I’m tempted to rip his fucking throat out. His face morphs into my father’s, into the terrible grin he used to set on me. The haze descends, and I’m on him. Tearing at flesh. Blood seeping between my fingers. Facial bones crack. My thumbs find the jelly-like orbs of his eyes and press hard. It’s not a sensation you get used to. Nor the screams beneath it. The way his mouth elongates, bloodied teeth gnashing as his eyes run down his cheeks.
Not enough to kill him, mind you.
The crowd lose their fucking minds, craving more.
But I’ve had enough. The spike of adrenaline ebbs, leaving numbness in its wake.
‘Sorry, buddy,’ I say, as I place my hands on either side of his head and give one sharp twist. The crack barely registers over the raucous noise, and like that, he departs our world. ‘Know I’d ache for a moment of the nothingness you have now.’
I rise, wiping eye goop on my thighs, wincing through my swollen face, and doing a quick tooth count with my tongue.
All still there, this time.
Every step up the grimy stairwell feels like another round in the makeshift ring. My muscles stiffen in protest, fingers digging into the cloth sack stuffed full of twenty-pound notes. No digital cash for me. No one wants their little underground fight scene to have breadcrumbs.
At least the taxman doesn’t know about it either.
Relief fills me as I reach my floor, the old nicotine-stained door is a dilapidated but familiar welcome. My hands tremble as I fit my key in the lock, wondering what would have happened if I’d just never come home. What happens to the bodies growing cold in the old warehouse, and who sits at home praying for their return?
No one would miss me.
The casserole on my kitchen table and the clean stack of dishes by the sink say otherwise.
Sandra always comes on a Saturday. I’m always out. Because what she sees as love feels like pity. I can’t stand the way her eyes fill whenever she looks at my face. She’d miss me, in a government-sponsored kind of way.
Notes spill out as I dump my winnings on the sparse counter. I’ll need to put it with the rest, but maybe when I can’t see two fridges at the same time. If I eat the cheap meat from the whoops section, and rice or pasta, it could last me a while, and whatever I don’t have to pay on maintaining this shit-hole flat can go away for my future.
A laugh escapes my throat at the thought.
Future.
There’s no future for people like me. You scrape together enough to eat while the world dishes out blow after blow, until you finally fall into the grave, too exhausted to rise. Death is welcomed as the kindest of companions. He brings neither disappointment nor pain. Just a sweet final nothing.
I down a glass of tap water, steadying myself against the counter, before swallowing a handful of painkillers and some arnica. By tomorrow, I’ll look as battered as an old boot, and likely feel it for days.
Good thing there’s nowhere else I need to be.
My bed welcomes me and the casserole into its cushioned depths. Eating is the last thing I want, but I know I’ll need it to fix my broken body. This isn’t my first time on the bloodbath rodeo. I spoon cold carrots and beef into my mouth, too tired to worry about heating them up.
Sandra does make a mean casserole. The salty gravy washes away the lingering metallic taste, and sleep soon taunts me with its embrace. As usual, I fight its temptations, not knowing whether my night will torture me with nightmares. Withhim.
One of the carrot slices is broken and has twisted to form a misaligned heart.
And hearts always make me think of her.
Kat.
I close my eyes and picture the scraps I remember.Her smiling face tearing through the trees. The shampoo running in my eyes as she scrubs my hair in the cold stream. The way she’d put her hands on her hips and tut, telling me that whatever I was doing,just wouldn’t do.
