Desire And Danger 18+

Two

Blow after blow lands on my body and face until I see nothing but fog billowing my path. Staggering, I shake my head swiftly; my sight clears. Again I set my fist in motion, throwing another punch. My attacker easily dodges; in return, he bends down into me and shoves a head onto my tummy. Before I register my next move, I'm up in the air, and then off to the floor with a loud, aching thud.

"Fuuuuck!" I grunt.

Pain soaks throughout my body, a fucking nine on a scale of ten on my tailbone bone and the back of my head. I seethe and coil, my hair matted in sweat—hopefully not blood. I can taste it in my mouth. Crouched on the blue mat, no relief ensnares me as a kick delves into my groin. I cough, grouching, arms curled in my tummy; my knees buckle up in a fetal position to meet my chest.

"Is that it?' Faintly, as if the world is moving agonizingly slowly, I hear Jimmy yelling. Eyes shut, I feel my heartless instructor's feet move stealthily around me as he adds, "Are you gonna give up already, girly? Is that all you can do?"

He's taunting me, but I can't bring myself to move. I'm in too much pain.

After a long year of recess, I decided to get back into the "game" as a part of my "normal" routine. I'm not sure if it's for the sake of physical fitness, as I did for the last four years, or if it is now simply my mental escape from the deep pain inside me that is beginning to feel like a slow death.

There is something about combat sports I always admired ever since I was a kid simply because my dad boxed sometimes.

But growing up as I did; working at casinos and nightclubs and all places with hormonal bastards and other dangers bestowed upon a big city like Las Vegas had me seek my protection. Josh's uncle has a small academy so I joined it and began boxing until last year when life got busy and priorities changed.

Either way, I'm back and more focused now even if it's a pile of pain and more pain every new day. Jimmy, my Brazilian instructor, is one savage of the beast. He's been brutal with me since day one when I joined his Krav Maga classes. The bastard beat the crap out of me until I cried like a baby, begging to be spared.

He's excellent in mixed martial arts; he never stops bragging about his service in Israel and Iraq before he went rogue and abandoned the army.

You don't beg for your life in my class, you defend it! This is not boxing! No rules here! You fall, you're half as dead! You submit you die! Consider this a real fucking life fight! He'd shout whenever I'd plea to surrender during Jiu-Jitsu technique in which he'd usually pin my neck using his corded arms from behind me, or simply rake the back of his knee across my neck to no escape.

But it makes me feel alive.

Too worn out to move, I still force my body to get up. But the second I wallow up, another hard kick joins my ribs. I fall flat on my tummy.

Swamped in agony, I draw everything out of sight, and the image of Adrian's face resurrects from my subconscious.

I see his mocking gaze skating me tauntingly as he says, "See? You're too weak, little rebel. You don't belong in my world."

And I do nothing but breathe ever-slowly as if it's my last breath, watching his pitying yet burning brown eyes until he fades as he always does. Whether I'm daydreaming or simply dreaming. I've never stopped thinking of him despite my marred emotions.

He's always there. Always.

Ever since that eerie afternoon in NYC when spring rain poured on my way to the Airport, it hasn't stopped raining in my heart. It's as if my whole world is mourning and living has become a dull chore, which is, even if I deny it, the reason why I'm here.