𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 → 𝐥𝐮𝐤𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

17. english literature, week 6

tuesday,
october 12th, 2020

LUKE HEMMINGS

I was right, of course.

I walked away from Riverside on Friday night with a total of £3,000 in cash stuffed in my gear bag.

This time though, it wasn't without damage. The guy I fought was pretty damn strong, and only an inch shorter than me. He was more muscular than myself, and he threw me to the ground once or twice. I'm currently left with poorly covered bruises on my chest, and more than a cut on my lip. I have a nasty bruise on my jaw too, which Calum helped me cover with makeup early this morning.

But of course, I won. I always do, and I always feel the weight of dirty regret on my shoulders as I leave the arena to go home.

What I do, it's completely and utterly illegal. It could get me fired from the university, ruin my reputation and ultimately leave me bankrupt, because if either of those things were to happen, the club wouldn't let me fight there again.

Rocky doesn't have many rules. Hell, we don't even wear gloves when we fight. But if I waltzed in there with a bad rep and people knew about it... well that's just unacceptable. The last thing Rocky wants is people finding out about Riverside Fight Club— people other than the scumbags that attend the events regularly.

I've been fighting at Riverside for three years now. I met Rocky there, but I knew Calum before that. He and I studied psychology together in Greenwich, while I split it with English literature for credits, Cal majored in psychology and minored in business.

I moved to London, to my grandparents, when I was 18. I was determined to put myself through college, so I found a way to fund a three year degree here. Here; as in here, Greenwich University. Like I told Ezra before, I stumbled across a lot of money. But it wasn't enough, and boxing gave me the rest that I needed to fund my degree and enabled me to move out on my own, no longer burdening my grandparents.

I was earning around £4,000 a week when I first started boxing at Riverside. I was worth £2,000 a fight, and I was fighting twice a week. I was completely burned out and exhausted, but not once did I give up. Rocky wouldn't let me. And when Calum found out what I'd been doing — due to constant bruises and scars, that I didn't cover up very well — he tried to get me to stop. He was worried, as my friend.

I didn't stop. So, Calum accepted defeat and instead invested a lot of time into ensuring I didn't die in that place. He still does this, and he's good at it. He's a personal trainer now, with his own gym, but he always makes time for me and my stupid fights.

Nowadays, for every fight I win, an extra £3,000 is added to the wealth under my name. Tickets are £100 each, and this doesn't phase the usual 30 drunk fuckers that attend my fights every week. I don't care who's there, as long as I get my share.

I don't really know why I still fight.

I have a steady income now, and I do love my job. But the darkest depth of life I was in, Riverside dragged me out of. I suppose I'll be thankful of that forever, and maybe I am slightly emotionally attached to the shitty underground venue— no matter how much I hate it.

I'm sat at my desk in the English literature lecture hall, highlighting paragraphs in the textbook that I want to review with the class today. The time creeps closer to 9:30am, and I rub my eyes of exhaustion.

I was up until all hours last night writing in that fucking leather notebook of mine. I couldn't stop, it was like my hand and the pen situated between my fingers wouldn't let me.