Dogfight

The Doghouse

There was a crash from dad's room of our dilapidated apartment, but I didn't flinch from the noise of shattering glass. I rolled over in my bed, bleary eyes squinting as looked at the digital clock on my nightstand, rubbing my optics as they cleared to reveal that it was almost midnight. I looked out the window, which had been broken over and over, so I just didn't bother to get it fixed, covering most of it up with wooden boards that I had found near the rubbish dump. There was a slither of white moonlight that shone through the slit, and I sighed, sitting up in bed as the cool air attacked my bare torso. I covered my eyes for a moment as I blocked out dad's hollering and the smash of yet another emptied beer bottle, and got up, walking over to my wardrobe, which was nothing more than a wooden box. I opened a drawer up, pulling out a white singlet top, slipping it on before pulling on a pair of loose sweatpants. I yawned loudly, running my fingers through my lengthy black hair, which had started to grow out, the natural blonde roots starting to appear at the top of my head.

I grabbed my tattered hoodie, trying to pick off that little bit of crusted blood that I had gotten stuck on there from a fight last week. I sighed, giving up on cleaning it, and jammed my arms through the loose holes, tying up my black combat boots, doing up the laces tightly. I pulled my hood over my head before grabbing the medical tape from the top of my desk, which only held up my ageing laptop, my brick-of-a-phone, some school books and a few photos. I peeled off some tape, wrapping it around my hands and fingers, especially over my knuckles that had started to peel a little, blistering. I then slipped on a pair of green and black fingerless gloves before taking out my snakebites. I had used to keep them in during fights, but after seeing someone get their septum ring ripped out I had decided to keep them off, sparing myself the danger of getting them forcefully taken out of my body.

I grabbed my backpack, putting in a few boxes of painkillers, some bandages, a bottle of water, my phone and iPod, before looking at myself in the mirror that hung limply on a cracked wall. I looked like a mess, but I always did, so I didn't ponder over it too much. My face was well hidden under the hood, but you could just make out the faint mop of hair that fell over my eyes, which were a dull grey colour, nothing interesting to look at. I had pretty delicate features, which often brought me competitors who thought I was an easy target since I looked like a harmless flea. I was only 158cm, a scrawny thing, but under all my baggy clothing I had some form of muscle, but I was already small to start with, with long limbs and a smaller frame.

I sighed, walking out of my room before knocking on dad's room, rolling my eyes as he gruffly yelled something before the door swung open, revealing a piss-stained man with rapidly growing facial hair, dark bags drooping under blood-shot eyes as he stared at me with malice, snarling as he looked my up and down, taking a swig of the Vodka he was drowning himself in. I could smell something burning, and I figured he was going to be on one of his high streaks, using the money from last week's fighting rounds to buy out a whole stash of his fucking heroin and cocaine.

"You better bring back something big, Renny," dad growled, shoving me harshly out the door of our apartment. It wasn't much of a home, with barely anything to define it as our house. It was small, with only a single bathroom, two bedrooms, a living room and a kitchen which doubled as a dining room. It was always messy, but I did my best to keep it at a liveable standard, but with dad's habits it was hard. It always smelled like piss, drugs and alcohol, and no matter how many scented candles I had going on nothing seemed to get rid of his stench.

"You barely brought anything home last time. Don't come back here unless you bring back at least a thousand, you hear me?!"

"Yes, dad," I said softly, hefting my backpack onto my shoulders as I looked up into the star-lit sky as dad slammed the door shut. The first fights started at 12 o'clock on the dot, not a second earlier, not a second later. I took a brisk pace as I walked down the street, the eerie shadows watching me as I stuck my earphones into my ears, flicking through the songs and stopping on Kyoto by Skrillex.

It wasn't a long walk to the Doghouse- only ten minutes at a fast pace by foot. It was located in the bad side of town, but dad and I lived on the outskirts of that so we weren't far off living in and amongst the child rapists and the prostitutes of the town.

Soon enough I found myself standing outside the entrance to the Doghouse. I pulled out my key that I had hanging around my neck, unlocking the back door. Every competitor had a key- you don't have one, you don't get in unless you come with a competitor. But who would come here anyway? I slipped inside, the door automatically locking behind me, and I quickly jogged down the metal stairs, my boots clacking on the metal barring as my iPod blared in my ears. As I neared the main level, I started hearing voices and cheering, before bursting through into the change rooms and lockers of the underground arena.

The Doghouse was basically a fighting arena, where wash-out boxers, failed athletes and criminals who needed to make a quick buck. I was a little like them- I needed to make money. I could get a normal job like a normal teenager, but they paid too little, according to dad. This 'job', I suppose, gave me lots of cash in quick installations, but I had to pay the price for it. I was a good fighter, though- before dad had resorted to alcohol and drugs to escape his depression, he had been a martial arts and boxing fanatic, sending me off to schools to learn boxing, karate, taekwondo and kickboxing. I was good at it, and as twisted as it sounds, I felt that when I was up on that stage in the arena, with everyone watching me fight opponents double my size, I couldn't help that sense of adrenaline and belonging flood into me. I felt strong for once, every punch, kick and bite I land on my opponent.

I shoved my backpack and iPod into my locker, and whirled around when I felt a pair of hands clap my shoulders, making me jump just a little bit. J.C. smirked a little, wolf-whistling.

"Someone's on edge today. I'm worried for whoever's paired with you," he said, patting my shoulder as he pulled out a cigarette, offering me one. I shook my head and he shrugged, lighting his smoke as he put his cancer sticks back into the pocket of his leather vest. I found my eyes drifting to the coloured tattoos that littered his strong arms as he took a drag, puffing out a plume of smoke that lingered around my face, making me scrunch up my nose.

"They're called cancer sticks for a reason, you know," I said calmly, and he shrugged. "But I guess you don't care, do you?"

"Not at all," he said, grinning, flashing me his pearly whites. "I have nothing to live for, not any more. My career's over, not that it even began in the first place." J.C.'s eyes darkened before stomping on his cigarette. J.C. used to be a professional boxer and was about to make his first big break onto the big, international scene, but had been cornered in an alleyway, beaten senseless. He could have gone into the boxing tournament, but his ego and his pride had taken a bigger beating than his body, so now he has turned to the Doghouse in hope that maybe, just maybe he'll find the person who ruined his career and his life.

"But what I don't get, Renny, is what a cute little thing like you is doing here in this shit hole," he added, eyeing my curiously.

"And that is something you don't need to know," I said, smirking, and he shrugged, muttering a quiet 'Touche' before making his way back to his locker. He turned back a moment later, though, looking at the clock.

"You're on in five minutes. You're going up against Big Ben," he said, and I nodded as he laughed. "Not that he's going to stop you."

I gave J.C. a small smile before walking out of the change rooms and down the hall to the entrance to the arena. I could hear the cheering before I even got within five metres of the door, and I could feel the adrenaline already building from the bit of my stomach, filling my senses with anticipation. I jumped up and down on the spot as I saw a man in black, one of the operators of the Doghouse standing by the entrance to the stage. He nodded at me as I cracked my knuckles, pulling my gloves further up onto my hand as I blew on my painted fingers, my little good luck gesture.

The operator nodded towards me, opening up the door, and I stepped out onto the stage as cheers erupted from the crowd.

This was my home. This was the Doghouse.