Black Glass

Chapter 5

There were periods of times in my life, sometimes days, or weeks, where hours rushed past like a fever dream, and all of it amalgamated into a flurry of blurred experiences. There was nothing worse than falling through time. Enduring, suffering, wasting through an entire day with no notable accomplishment, no sense of progress, entirely without incident. The hours bled, days overlapped one another, and all that followed through was the madness of reaching, clawing, craving some kind of meaning amidst the primordial chaos. Distraction after distraction. Passing time, spending it as if it were worth nothing. As if it were petty cash. An existential trap. But in present circumstance, the merciless entrapment of living as a gargoyle would be suspended for a single night.

I entered the ring.

If I thought of perfect moments, I imagined the things that people would say. Laying in the arms of their lover. Pushing their child on a swing for the very first time. Finally landing that promotion after years of service. For me it was different. In the absence of my heart's greatest desire, I had settled for something a little less, but it had its own elegance nonetheless. The perfect moment that I could describe, or at least the closest to it, would be the twenty minutes or less, when I was in the ring and the world in its entirety was gone. My vices, the bullshit, the façade. All of it. Dissolved into a pocket hidden in the corner of the world. There would just be the fight.

And thus, with the sound of the bell, the fight began.

A beautiful rhythm, likened to an ineloquent dance; an imperfect arabesque. Sometimes a full minute without landing a single blow. The small audience as loud as thunder; I heard nothing. When I got hit, there would be no pain. The ringing in my ear had long since become a comfort. Right hook. Side step. One-two. Block. A symphony of momentum. Movements sometimes slow enough to appreciate, sometimes fast enough to be almost imperceptible. A rush of wind and fists. It did not matter to me who I was fighting. Whether they possessed a greater skill or elevated strength was irrelevant. It was not about the competition. I was in the ring for an exalted purpose.

My opponent Shane came out like a trail of fire, guns blazing, as if he believed that he could put me down quickly. The arrogance of an amateur. I absorbed the pressure, taking on the flurry of punches with no inclination to strike back. Not yet. My nerves were entirely steady, I was completely in control; yet for some reason I felt a restlessness stir in my gut. I felt an irritation growing inside of me. Watching Shane flail at me made me feel a boiling contempt for his pathetic display. I found myself on the ropes and the referee intervened to tell my opponent to lay off. The crowd roared words of encouragement. Some of them remarked loudly about my passive demeanour. They were of little importance. I circled the ring, shaking myself off. Ancient longing threatened to shatter my concentration, as I knew what I truly wanted. In as much as boxing was a necessary relief, it too was a maddening dance between control and desire. And the line was getting greyer.

I had the skill. I had the means to take him out quickly, but a voice screamed at me to prolong the fight; delay the gratification until the most opportune moment for it. As I danced with darkness, running circles around my mind, I found myself becoming immensely distracted. I had the nagging sense that eyes were boring into me, and not those of the ordinary spectator. In the corner of my vision, singled out behind the crowd, I saw a solitary figure. A man with a hood, sunglasses and a cap, watching me as if I were performing a live reading. He held my attention for but a moment.

A thunderous impact against the side of my face sent me off balance, and I lost my footing and hit the floor. Roars of approval from the crowd. The referee barked at me, asking whether I was able to continue. The question insulted me. I blinked; more from shock than pain. That sense of surprise only lingered for a single moment. Then, I felt it. Red, visceral rage. Immense and overwhelming, rumbling at the surface, threatening to erupt. Sheer contempt overshadowed reason, and I grit my teeth so hard I feared that they would be ground to a powder. I launched myself to my feet with a fury, shoved the referee aside and approached my opponent with absolute focus, fuelled by an ancient anger that knew no equal. All sound dissipated, and white light eradicated colour.