Pilot
"Focus Dane!"
These words echoed as I returned to my stance. My opponent lunged for my waist, knocking me off balance. Instinctively I raised my arms in defense but too late as I received a heavy blow to my left cheek. He got off and returned to his ready position as I slowly stood up.
It was a full crowd tonight, fitting in as many as twenty people surrounding us some yelling, some silent. But I probably shouldn't be worried about that. Stepping forward I attempted a right jab and followed up with left hook, to no avail it seems. My opponent blocked both attacks and countered with a kick to the temple.
There I was on the ground again. I feel as though I should be embarrassed if it wasn't for the fact that I've been getting my ass handed to me for the past two minutes. At this point my legs are the only things keeping me up seeing as my mind continues to linger.
This arena should be illegal; it should be if it wasn't for the police endorsement. This arena surprisingly has no purpose. No juvenile stress relievers, no tournament, no prizes, unless you count gloating rights but that's how you get taken down quickly. Why is this arena here?
Of course while I'm questioning myself my opponent has gone in for the grapple, throwing me over his shoulder. I stand again like an idiot questioning why I continue to torture myself. But whatever, Might as well finish strong. Or at least that's what I thought before being jump kicked in the face.
Seems like my legs have followed my minds example and taking this opportunity to discover how comfortable the ground actually feels when they're not in motion. The referee calls the match over and all I want to do is just close my eyes. Got to be a good sport though, Getting up one more time to shake the hand of my opponent. I probably won't even remember what he looks like as we both head our separate ways into the crowd. I could stay to watch the rest of the fights but I'd rather just lie in bed.
I receive pats on the shoulder by other fighters that show up as often as I do, the look in their eyes tell me that they understand how I'm feeling at the moment, nothing. I shrug it off, It's not like I'm on too big of a losing streak, 6-15 isn't a bad record considering that I don't have a definitive style or mastery of fighting. I'll be back again anticipating an actual victory some other day.
It's still as dark as I had came in outside, with the occasional street lamp to light the sidewalk. I can't tell if my motion is natural or sluggish, probably the latter considering the looks I'm receiving. Or that could be the swelling, I can't really tell.
I don't necessarily feel like going home yet knowing that my father is going to be interrogating me on my match ending his session with a disappointing look. I can imagine that look now as I continue my trek onward. It's unfortunate; I really did want to see him smile tonight, at least at the beginning of tonight. The walk always feels much longer when I have this passive aggressive mind state, reaching in my pocket hoping I had remembered my key. I had one blessing tonight as I reached my doorstep. Or not, I thought as my key fell out of my pocket. Picking it up I placed it in the only thing it has true connection to and unlocked the door. My father had fallen asleep in the living room, probably waiting for me, and I assume my mother was in her bedroom. I climbed up the stairs with the speed of which only seems normal in my mind and went straight to my bedroom. The bed has never felt more like a luxury as I collapsed into it, eyes shut.