Alexander Ace Peterson has been an underground boxer for nearly his whole life, its always the same thing, train, fight, and win. But his boss tells him that they need something new, that something being a woman. Would having a woman join the fight...
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Blair♧
You could be sat right next to someone and still feel as though you are alone. The gigantic hole in your heart not letting you believe there is someone in your life who cares for you. But not me, I have no one, no one at all.
A parent is something a person wants to be, they are not lumbered with that title if they refuse. A title is just a title after all, mother, father; it means nothing unless those who choose to be parents live up to those titles.
My mother, however, does not deserve her title but if I dare call her by her first name, buy my word, the world would end. It has always been a question on my part as to why she even had children, me, all I have ever done, according to her, is bring her pain and misery and I'd like to say I think it's the other way around. A mother's love for their child is supposed to be unconditional but my mother's love for me does not exist at all.
The only memory I have of my mother that is pleasant is the day we went to the park. By that point I think my father had been around only a few days at most before disappearing completely.
It was a warm but cold day in June, the sky was a sheet of white that showed no signs of raining but showed no signs of letting the sun through either and there was slight chill in the breeze that brushed past our faces.
My mother was happy, her usual up-tight self was gone momentarily, her smile was soft, her cheeks were flushed red from the breeze, her forehead was wrinkle free and her dark eyes were a soft blue. Everything then screamed kindness.
I was four at the time. The only reason I can recall this memory and display this bright image in my head despite the fact that when we went to the park I was only young, is because there is a photograph of us at the park under my bed.
I keep it out of plain sight because it pains me to see it, it makes me long for something that is a distant memory. It hurts too much to bare, it pains me to the core.
Sometimes when I am really reminiscing the past I like to take it out of it's imprisonment just so I can see the kindness in my mother's face, I stroke my finger along the dent just wishing for the old her to return.
But that is wishful thinking and I have come so far to know that my wishes will never come true. When we were at the park I was sat on the big kid swing struggling to kick my legs forward. My mother had scurried over and gently placed her hands on the low of my back and gave me the push I needed to be able to swing. Her hands were delicate, treating me like I was something to be treasured rather than something that needed discarding.
I tell myself, with every fresh bruise and mark that she does love me and she is yet to say it and I am yet to believe it. In my dreams I picture the perfect family, a happy child, a loving mother and a very much so present father, but then I open my eyes and daylight streams in through my curtains and I realise that I have woken into my nightmare because no good comes from my life and no good enters it.
