Rock and Roll

Chapter One: Painter

Fighting wasn't Harry's first choice. He wanted to be a painter, or maybe some kind of performer. He wasn't the fighting type. In fact, he wasn't even the type to complain when a fast-food place got his order wrong. He often wondered if he made the right choice, but considering he hasn't been living in a cardboard box, he never wondered for long.

If you saw him on the street you wouldn't find him intimidating. From afar, he was just a large cuddly bear. If you saw him during a fight, however, with his brow furrowed and his hands and face bloody, you would feel the sudden urge to run. The years of training had toned his muscles, and given him more than a few scars. He often had to explain them to his one night stands, as it was unusual for a painter to have such bold marks.

When he wasn't in the ring, he was drawing. His small apartment was filled with art supplies, ranging from Japanese water colors to shading tools. If you hadn't seen him fighting, you would never know what really pays his bills.

It was mid spring, and he was sitting in a cafe, stressed out about his next fight. Sipping coffee and listening to Muse with a strange look on his face. The others in the cafe paid little attention to him, only occasionally glancing at him and wondering who died.

He was fighting a new guy, only nineteen. He wondered what he felt like, walking into the ring for the first time. He remembered the first time he was in a real fight, and how nervous he was. So nervous in fact that he got knocked out cold in less than three minutes. A small laugh escaped him, thinking about it now. He wasn't exactly excited though, to do the same to someone else. Sure it was an easy win, which meant easy money, but it just didn't sit right in his stomach.

He's been at it now for long enough to not doubt his abilities. He was one of the fastest fighters in the ring, only three other people were better than him.

The sudden ringing from his phone snapped him out of his thoughts. The name that flashed across the screen made his heart leap into his throat.

He didn't exactly feel like another lecture about his career choice, so he gently set down his coffee, and pressed ignore.

He ran his calloused over his face, threw away what was left of the coffee, and walked outside to hail a cab. He wanted to train a little more before the match. The coffee he had nursed, made his fingers jumpy and his mind race.

There was a slight drizzle on the streets, making the pavement a dark grey. He walked quickly, wanting to get to the busy streets. The girls that passed him smiled.

There was something about the rain that made him happy. It reminded him of his childhood, of the green grass and small problems. His morals were simple, and the air surrounding him was always clean.

He walked through the foggy, wet streets now and wished he could go back. His knuckles were bloody and his shoes were covered in mud.