With You

Three

SAM:

The second his fist connected with my face my initial thought was how cliche the whole situation seemed. The first hit is always either the nose or the chin. It's an extremely predictable move, with the probability of being hit in one or the other always 50/50, and lacks any type of style or effort if you ask me. Yet somehow tonight I didn't dodge it in time. I could blame my slower than usual reflexes on the amount of alcohol I had or maybe I didn't avoid it on purpose, hoping and actually wanting to get hit.

I let him get a few good hits but the second I tasted blood, I knew it was time to put it to a stop. It wasn't even my fault this time. I couldn't understand his anger. I mean, in all honesty, she wasn't really worth it.

I've been traveling around Europe since summer break began with no particular destination in mind. My only goal was to think as little as possible and spend as much as possible of precious money my dad loved so much. It was my last night in Manchester. As always I accomplished absolutely nothing, which by my standards meant I accomplished everything on my personal agenda. Since I had an early flight the next morning I just wanted to get drunk. Whether it was the dread of actually going back home or the dread of an irrationally long flight, or if I'm being honest, a mix of both, I just needed something to make the process easier.

As I said, it really wasn't my fault. It started with a few beers. But the constant need to get up and urinate didn't make it worthwhile and the buzz was taking way too long for my liking. Switching to whiskey, neat, I made the mistake of making eye contact with her.

Obviously I felt the hungry stares landing on me all night but in comparison to the rest, she was the most brazen one. It wasn't like she was giving me seductive glances and whatnot; it was flat out staring. Instead of having the decency like the rest, of at least occasionally averting her eyes, she clearly had no shame. Some might find it daring. Unfortunately for her, I wasn't a part of that group that thought so.

The second her companion got up and left, she made her move. Being fully buzzed at that point, I decided why the hell not. She required absolutely zero effort on my part, my favorite kind.

She was clearly attractive and by the way she had barely blinked in the last hour or so, she clearly wanted me. Who was I to deny her the pleasure of being acquainted with me, I reasoned with myself.

Before I even had the chance to form a coherent thought, I felt someone's fist connecting with my face. "How dare you touch my fiancé?!" The meaty guy was yelling at me as his fist repeatedly pounced into my flesh. A couple of thoughts rushed through my clouded brain:

1. I was not touching her. I wasn't even focused on whatever nonsense she was saying. I was too busy trying to form a coherent thought.
2. His so called fiancé wasn't even sitting in the spot he left her. It doesn't take a lot of brain power to quickly deduce who did the approaching.
3. He really needs a better fiancé. For a second, I actually pitied the guy.
4.  I could really go for a sandwich right now. Maybe even wash it down with some of the tiny liquor bottles from the minibar of my hotel room.

Focusing all my attention on the physical pain I was experiencing at the moment, I was finally able to let go of all my thoughts. Having my mind go completely blank, I welcomed the natural instincts that took over me. Usually I had a hard time making my mind go quiet but this is why I treasured times like these.  My mind was completely empty. I could finally relax a little. I didn't even realize for how long I've had him pinned under me, aimlessly delivering hits, until I felt hands pulling me away. Sadly the feeling of peace only lasted for a second before I unwillingly lowered my fists.

Making my way out of the bar I couldn't decide what I wanted to do first, rinse the blood out, get that sandwich, or go to sleep. My mind was in worse shape than it was in the beginning of the night. Maybe I should have went to a club instead.