Midnight Muse

9 | Atticus

Atticus

The ring. My sanctuary and prison. As I step between the ropes, the familiar scent of sweat and desperation fills my senses.

The crows roar fades to a hum, a buzzing in the background. Despite the sea of faces hungrily watching me, I am truly alone here.

My opponent stands before me— a mountain of a man with eyes that betray his physical strength. With eyes that reveal fear.

He knows as they all do, I am not here by choice. The fights are my penance, my cross to bear for sins I will never be able to truly atone for.

As the bell rings and the two half naked girls exit the ring, I raise my fists making sure to guard my face.

My motions are mechanical— strategic and machine like— after the endless hours of training and more nights spent in a ring like this than not.

Unusually enough, my mind wanders as I dodge the clumsy attacks from my opponent.

My mind races to my sister, her face pale and sickly in the hospital bed. Her treatments are expensive and far beyond what an honest man's work could provide.

And so, I find myself here: knuckles raw and sore splitting against my flesh and bone. Countless nights spent being an animal and a man of violence.

A jab connects to my jaw, snapping my head back. I welcome the pain, allowing the distant feeling to rush adrenaline through me.

I counter my opponent with a series of angry strikes, feeling a rib crack beneath my skin.

He staggers, eyes shocked with pain. I know I should end it quickly, I've already won. I should have mercy.

However, mercy has no place in this underworld. And so, I continue: throwing endless blows to the man before me until the roars of the crowd are louder and louder.

He crumbles to the ground and I stand above him, glorious yet defeated. The meaningless noise of praise around me overloads my senses and I turn away, already thinking of the next fight.

I am both the saviour and the damned. And I don't know which role weighs more heavily on my soul. I commit both the crime and receive the punishment: living with myself.

☁️

The cold water bites at my skin as I scrub the blood from my hands. Is it mine or his? Does it matter? The drain runs red, a mockery of absolution that I know has no place in my heart.

A crusted blood clings stubbornly to my knuckles, as if it knows its rightful place on me, a mark of Cain that I'm unable to cleanse myself of.

I fight for the amusement of others, spilling blood for coin.

With every fight and every victory I feel a piece of my humanity chip away, removing me far away from the innocence I once knew.

As I dry myself up, I notice a spot of blood missed that has nestled into the crease of my fingers. How easy it would be to leave it there, a small reminder for my sins. But I know I can't. I have to maintain the illusion of cleanliness and normalcy for the world that exists outside the ring.

I finally straighten, squaring my broad shoulders back and watching the muscles in my body ripple beneath my calloused skin.

Despite being trapped in this purgatory I have created, I can't help but feel a warmth in my heart at the thought of her.