Haven't seen 3 Ninjas in forever, but felt like writing a story for it. Kind of angsty, which isn't really what I'm good at writing, but I think it turned out alright.
Please review and tell me what you think.
He screws on the lid of his water bottle then pauses and unscrews it.
It has become his nervous habit lately, to need to have something to do with his hands.
Sometimes he'd fiddle with his water bottle, or intertwine his fingers, or bite his nails, or play with the elastic on the sweatband he would wear to keep his hair out of his face… He didn't like the twitch he'd started to develop with his hands, the constant need to do something… it's not like him and he knows it's the first physical sign that won't simply heal.
His nerves are constantly on edge.
"What I am doing?" he sighs, once again screwing the lid back on and placing the half empty, green tinted bottle by his feet.
He feels queasy, and dizzy, and nervous, and ill, and… not like himself.
He remembers the first time he lied to his family about where he was going on Friday nights.
He'd claimed to have gotten a job helping out his friend who worked at a moving company. His shifts were on Friday evenings and for them to not worry or wait up; he'd find dinner for himself and be back before midnight.
He remembers being surprised they'd taken his word for it. He was only seventeen, and while athletic, not a big muscular guy.
He remembers the guilt; they believed him because he had never lied to them before.
Initially he'd felt so bad about lying to his family that he would lock himself in his room as soon as he got home from school. He'd take his dinner upstairs to his room, do his homework and then stare at the ceiling, wondering how long it would be until somebody noticed. Once renovations had been completed to the guest room, he'd been allowed to have his own room while the other two still shared.
That had been months ago though and he now no longer fears being discovered.
He has become too good at lying.
He looks up at the mirror in front of him; a large crack divides it in half and he is surprised it has yet to shatter. In it he can see a poor representation of himself. His hair is a bit too long, and his face is a bit too thin and his eyes a bit too hollow.
He pulls the green sweatband on his head, then pushes it back slightly so his bangs stick up like water out of a fountain. He unzips the grey sweatshirt he his wearing and shrugs it off his shoulders to reveal a black tank top underneath. He inhales deeply as he studies himself carefully.
The room he's in, it the nicest one available at the current facility. Its' dull, grey, cement floor, cracked mirror, plastic fold out chair and there is what appears to be a dead mouse in the corner of the room. There is no door and the mirror is angled so he can see the others walking passed. A few glance into the room briefly but only one stops.
He wants to wipe that smug smile of that one man's face.
"Ah, Samuel, are you ready?"
"Go to hell, Snyder." He replies deadpanned.
"Ah, tisk tisk, what would your dear Grandfather say to hear one of his boys using such foul language?"
He doesn't turn around to look at the man speaking to him. The man dressed in a pinstriped suit with slicked back hair, smirking triumphantly. He opts to watch him in the broken mirror, though due to the cracks, two of him appear in the reflection instead of one.
He begins to crack his knuckles and growl as he watches the man.
He remembers the day he heard that that man had been released on some bullshit legal technicality his lawyer had come up with. He'd nearly chucked the remote at the television set out of pure rage, which was strange for him. He'd been such a calm person at one point.
He remembers the day his bike had been broken so he'd needed to walk home. The walk had gone fine until two thugs had grabbed him and pulled him into a van, threatening if he screamed or told anyone about this event his family would pay dearly. As proof he'd held up one of his brother's track jacket that had gone missing two weeks earlier out of the hall closet. He remembers the guns and the threats towards his parents, his brothers and his grandfather.
He remembers that there was one way out.
"Well, then again, what would your dear Grandfather say if he found out one of his boys was working for me? Hmm?"
His eyes flash and he stands up and kicks his chair back. It collapses from the force. "I'm doing what you ask, okay?" He snaps aware he is still shorter than the older man, but barely.
"Tisk, now how did it go? A good ninja has self control? Where's yours Samuel?"
"Let me make myself clear. Go. To. Hell." He growls through clenched teeth.
"Just go out there and win tonight, you'll get your cut, I'll get some more of my credit back and the thrill of torturing you for yet another night and then we can go out separate ways. Deal?"
Snyder leaves the room leaving him standing there, fuming. He thinks jail has done something to him, made him shrewder and less of the "I'll tear out your liver!" man he'd met when he was still a kid.
He could hear the roar of the crowd outside, it wasn't the cheering of families and friends. It was the calls and jeers of gamblers and drunks. He wasn't sure why Snyder was making him do this week after week, but if it keeps his family safe he plans to keep up with it.
Snyder gives him half of the money he wins, but seems to take more pride in the fact that he in essence is "the boss".
He grabs his water bottle, steps over the collapsed chair and heads to the fight area. He sees it's a couple of ratty mats pushed together and won't protect anyone. He silently thanks whoever is responsible for the cold spell they're having and that him wearing sweaters most days won't look to suspicious.
After all, you can't fight and not get injured.
He's vaguely aware of the slime balls who are weaving in and out of the trashy spectators taking bets on the next fight, the one he is going to be in against some guy named "Red Death". More often then not he finds that these underground fighters talk tough, but don't really know how to fight.
He watches as the current fight ends with the competitor in a yellow T-shirt getting his nose broken by his shaggy hair opponent. He watches blood splatter on the mats and winces.
He starts to unscrew the lid to his water bottle again.
As he does he prays that one of his brothers realizes that you don't get that many bruises from lifting furniture, that you don't make that much money being a mover that works only for a few hours a week, and that his need to fidget isn't something that's magically developed for no reason.
He prays that one of them realizes something is seriously wrong.
As Snyder watches as he walks onto the mats with a larger man wearing a red ski mat is already hopping back and for between his two feet in a bad imitation of boxing and as the final bets are taken he adds one more prayer to the list.
He prays they realize it before he forgets who he really is.