Knockout (Sequel to Dark)

Chapter 4

Despite lack of better judgement, I'm back again. Having upheld commitments on Friday and Saturday with James and Tiff, I'd bargained Sunday to return home. Tiff had whinged saying my mum was going to get sick of me. But it's not really my mum that I've come to see.

My knee can't seem to stop hopping, bouncing in excitement and apprehension. It's an odd combination to feel, the butterflies in my stomach just as confused as me. Their wings beat against my insides as the back door opens and Harry strides out. He's on a mission, unperturbed by the distasteful taunts shouted from liquor swilled mouths.

"Freak!"

He's different tonight, more alert, more aware of his surroundings. I sit back down, watching him through the fleeting gaps between people ahead of me. There's no show of entering the ring and the announcer flusters through the introduction Harry didn't give him any time to deliver. The black hood is taken down and Harry's interest in the crowd is abnormally high. He never usually sees beyond his opponent, but tonight he's not even given a passing glance.
There's a hot clench in my stomach, similar to the feeling of the moments before you're found when playing hide and seek.

Harry does another skim of faces as the announcer removes himself from the ringed fight. He stops occasionally, scrutinising people, pressing himself to the ropes in order to extend his range and confirm identity.

He's searching for someone.

Regretfully I can't clearly see his face; if I could, I would hope that it would give me an indication as to who captures his thoughts. I sit shrouded in my own as the fight begins, cheers interspersed with ugly words of torment. He shouldn't have to listen to that. The situation is like that of a quarantined animal, people poking and shouting with cruel intent in attempt to get a rise, hear the animal roar. Harry's not going to bite this time.

The ink covering his left arm is smudged and stretched as he uses it to block attacks and counter them with his own. Not only does he have to defend against fists, elbows and ramming shoulders, Harry's also acutely aware of jabs from knees. He ducks out of a right hook, challenging the aggression with a sharp kick to the man's thigh.

I'm still astounded by the combination of hits, the abandonment of any rules, no guidelines. All that remains is the objective to take your opponent down, in any way possible apparently. Harry can hold his own, skilled in this new form of fighting that involves almost no protective gear despite the unequivocal need for it. Each hit stokes the audience, thirsty to see if the champion can provide them with another spectacular knockout.

Harry knocks the brawl to the floor after sweeping his right leg 'round and catching the other fighter in the back of his knees. He collapses forward, slamming his chin into the solid ring floor before squirming to turn on his back. I feel for him, his body language reflecting his understanding of the position. Forearms shoot up to protect his face as Harry repeatedly swings at him. His hair is taken back with a bandana, less of a distraction when it's up off his face. But it doesn't seem to help with other interferences. Both Harry and I, along with others, are drawn to the ruckus over by the bar. There's already volunteers to bring order to a scuffle the involved should be ashamed of. Delusions of grandeur are displayed as one man takes it upon himself to claim pathetic victory over the drunk he's shoved to the floor. I shake my head with disapproval as he makes a sceptical of himself.

Back in the ring, Harry's been shoved aside with the challenger already taking the power position up on his feet. Harry's on his knees and I can't quite come to terms with just how fast the tables can turn. No mercy is given and I visibly recoil as the fighter prepares to boot Harry in the shoulder he's already cradling in pain. The assault is interrupted at the last possible moment by Harry's right arm. I slip from my seat with my heart pounding in my ears and frantically claw through the people in front. Four seconds, five? I'm not sure, but it is just a few mere seconds. Harry's the only one standing.
Nasty words are thrown at him yet again, people disappointed with the outcome of the match and the loss of bets. He seems to take no notice, stooping through the ropes and jumping down. The baffled announcer is left in the ring with a bloody fighter and without a winner's arm to raise in victory. My eyes trail after Harry as he clutches his shoulder and creates a forced path to the back door.