THE FIGHTER || COMING SOON ||

one.

  In my deepest heart, I always wanted to be a lover; but there was no approval in bouquets of red roses and no fulfillment in poetry with careful words that rhymed at the edges.

  I've spent two years slamming my fist into concrete, admiring the way that blood sometimes resembled the color of rose petals. The shade of crimson matched the warmth of my mother's smile. It was the only image of her that hadn't yet vanished from my head. Triggering it, recognizing that reddish color, was the most effective way keeping her alive.

  People say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes. When she died, it felt like I was seeing her life only once before all the memories vanished.

  Fighting is the simplest form of self-destruction. You lose your dignity as you watch your teeth drop onto an unknown floor. You lose your morality when you start picturing people not as friends, but as a moving target, each with an X where their eyes should be. But most of all, you lose your faith in the moments when the clock nears zero, knowing full well within your heart of steel, that the sound of the buzzer is the sound of God determining your fate.

  Sometimes, I compare that intensity to love.

  If fighters can reek of violence and if love encourages you to commit violent actions, why are the two not interchangeable?

  "Because", as my father always said to me, "the only way to be the stronger man is to uphold an invulnerable heart." His breath smelled like a mixture of whiskey and coffee when he spoke. I've learnt long ago to ignore the words he chose to give.

  He spoke of happiness being related to ignorance, disgust and hatred. He addressed me like I was an itch on his shoulder - one he was dying to shake off.

  I've kept myself sane in his presence for the sake of my mother. But for the last two years, she hadn't been around to keep me anchored. Now, at age sixteen, exhausted from my own exhaustion, I've lost my anchor. I've shredded my sanity. I've moved my home into the attic of the building that reeked of sweat.

  My fist slammed against something less rougher. Leather. The punching bag constantly swung back into place. The sound of my skin hitting the raw material made a noise like a music note.

  A girl with dyed lilac hair had joked about that once.

  "Hey Dusty. You ever not working on those muscles?" she asked me, eyeing my body like it was some sort of machine.

  "Not sure, Eva. Try me on a day that doesn't end with Y."

  We laughed it off. But the way that her eyes shot glances in my direction, sometimes made me feel like there were other things that she wanted to ask.

  There was no opposition inside me when she lightly rested her fingers on my arms, her hands running through my caramel colored hair, soft words into my ringing ears. There was no opposition to the way she constantly decided to slowly say my name.

  But there was no passion. There was no feeling. There was no color within the clouded grey that colored the room of the Kickboxing Club. There was my body and Eva Larkin's body.

  And then there was the fighter.

  She was like fire with every step she took. Her hair fell in princess curls across the top of her shoulders. In the split second that she looked at me, her eyes shined with a startling blue color that brought mystery to the dullness.

  Today was Wednesday afternoon.

  Tomorrow might be less empty.