Brightside

15 | man! i feel like a woman

Eddie was never quite used to getting punched in the face. Staying on her feet after receiving a blow to the head always felt like a remarkable feat. She wasn't sure if she needed to use more chapstick or something but the mouthful of blood she spat somewhere near her was the result of a violent split lip. Eddie kept her hands up—maybe she hadn't been doing that before. Round one, Coach had told her she needed to. What round were they in now? Two? Three?

Parker was an out-boxer. Her height helped with that. It worked to her advantage against Eddie. Most of the fighters who beat Parker were taller than her. Eddie was a rare case of good luck and a bad day—at least, that's what she told herself.

When it came to fighting, Eddie never did it with anger. (Spare a lapse in judgement that involved Giovanni Perez and his nose.) She always found boxing intriguing. From the first time August had shown her Million Dollar Baby. Eddie was obsessed with it. The footwork, the workouts, the different fighting styles, the strategy. When August conjured up enough change from a shitty waitress job to get her her first pair of boxing gloves for her 16th birthday, Eddie had never felt so much excitement. It was like she found her path in the dark. Like the light came on at the end of the tunnel.

Jab. Right to the fucking eye.

Eddie needed to focus.

When she was little, Eddie's dad tried to teach her how to ballroom dance. Her feet on his, him guiding the petite two-step across the living room rug while Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Ballet played in the background on the busted record player her parents took with them when they left. Boxing felt like that. A ballroom dance that ended in pain.

Most of Eddie's life was proving she would not be backed into a corner; Parker had done exactly what to her. Eddie held her hands up in defense. Surely Coach was yelling at her to get out; something that was much easier said than done. Parker crossed and jabbed at her ribs. Elbows tight against her body, the only defense Eddie had while she looked for an opening on Parker's guard.

And boom.

Eddie swung an uppercut and knocked Parker back a couple steps. Enough to get her off the ropes. That's what she needed. The dance continued. Parker and Eddie's fighting styles antagonized each other a little too well. Where Parker used her height to attack from a farther range, Eddie's pressure fighting ensured she was close in, her lack of height didn't matter close up.

Eddie must've had a shiner because after round two, the referee checked her eyesight. She was fine. She was always fine. She'd always make sure she was fine. The referee cleared her quickly. The fight went to round three.

"You need to finish this, kid." Coach always said that. Finish this. Like Eddie hadn't been trying to. Like she could snap her fingers and win. "You've got this. Get on the inside and get your win. Kick some ass."

There was no part of Eddie that wanted to go to round four. Bathed in sweat, body aching. Parker was bloody. Tired. Eddie could tell from across the ring while Coach tried to talk on deaf ears and a trainer tried to ice her eye with a freezing metal plate. She knew what she had to do.

Any pre-fight jitters were gone. Eddie wanted to fucking win. There always came a point in a match where any performance anxiety that she previously felt went away: that was what round three felt like. Her ribs ached with each breath but there was a determination in her belly that felt like fire. Like she'd lit a match inside and stomach acid was replaced with kerosene and there was nothing to extinguish the flames.

The punches she threw were fiercer than the rounds before. Feet moved faster. Eddie dodged almost everything Parker threw at her. She felt fucking untouchable. Miraculous. Powerful. Any blows Parker landed were shaken off. One punch was given two in return. There was no denying Parker was starting to falter. Jabs and crosses became easier to block. Guards were dropped. There came a point in many fights that Eddie had lost where she felt like giving up. Kept her hands up in hope the bell would ring but ultimately her footsteps wavered and her knees felt like collapsing and she made more mistakes than she normally would and it sometimes ended up with someone waving ammonia salt under her nose to wake her up while the crowd cheered for her opponent. Defeat takes over an entire body like an eternal flame has been blown out and suddenly the world is cloaked in darkness.