One single knock at the door woke him up and he sat up, wary, confused, his heart racing just like every time he caught himself sleeping. He looked around before starting to calm down.
Yes, yes he remembered where he was.
London, the small room behind the warehouse, the one he was living - or rather surviving- for a couple of weeks already.
He was breathless and covered in sweat. Another short nap, another too long nightmare. It took him a minute to convince himself he was fine. No rain on his face, no mud under his feet, no blood on his hands.
He looked down at his fists and forced them to relax and open. He groaned as his tensed muscles ached and confirmed him he was alive.
Great.
He got up and rubbed his face. He knew that there was no one waiting behind the door. It was just a signal to tell him it was time to get ready. He could hear agitation outside, horses and men, coming and going, excited shouts, drunk laughters.
The usual crowd.
He walked towards the window and looked outside to watch them, those men living the perfect life during the day, good husbands and fathers having a respectable existence, existence that got them so bored they felt the need to escape it, spending hundreds of dollars to witness fights, other men, less blessed by Fate, hitting and hurting each other for the rich men's entertainment and in Chandler's case, to get rid of the rage, of the rumble of violence that was constantly crawling under his skin.
He sighed and turned around looking for his shirt.
He found it and put it on then he met his own eyes in the reflection of the small mirror on the wall. He didn't recognize himself at first. Not that he had changed so much since he had arrived in England. He was an ex-soldier, silent and mourning, mannered still but rough at times when he disembarked the boat that had him crossing the ocean. The journey had been monotonous but he didn't mind that. He had found a few books that he had read only when no one could see him, like it was almost shameful for him to get caught reading. It was an old habit from his time in the army. Soldiers aren't supposed to read.
Soldiers aren't supposed to do many things.
The only adventure on that boat had been provided by that lady, slightly older than him, a widow feeling lonely, a woman used to luxury and pretty things who obvioulsy wanted to taste something different. She had been seeking for his company for the first weeks, even if he had made clear he was more the lonely type. That he didn't like to be touched. But it had seemed to increase her interest and she had made a point to introduce him to her 'friends' as a war hero.
Ironic, he had thought.
He had taken him a shit load of brandy and expensive whiskeys to go through the first night in her cabin but outside the fact he didn't care, there was that void inside him that would just grow deeper and larger anytime he was around people, people who were looking at him without seeing him. And in his desperate attempt to disappear into that void, he would always get himself into situations that he would despise, that would make him despise himself.
Like every night in the widow's arms.
Or every fight in the warehouse.
What had he become? He asked silently to the reflection in the mirror.
Of course, the man in the mirror couldn't answer. He kept looking at Chandler with an empty look, a tired face and a dying soul.
Dying, yes. He wished it was easier.
He had left the widow without a word, knowing from the get go that his company was just something to pass time on the boat. He had eaten at the captain's table. Drank his fancy alcohol and endured the curious looks.
There was nothing fancy in that warehouse. And again, all the eyes would be on him. Curious how he would always ended being the center of attention when he felt like a ghost inside.
He looked away to grab the bandages to wrap his knuckles with. The bandages were covered in dried blood -not all his- and sweat but he had no other. He would have to clean them at some point.
Undefeated.
It was a title he couldn't be proud of. To him, it was just a sign that his rage, his madness couldn't be equalled or matched….or tamed by anyone. There was something inside him, something that needed to get out, to take control.
And that was the only thing that was frightening him.
Everything that was happening after the snap.
Everything during the black-out.
He exited the room, head down, focusing on his steps before heading towards the inside of the warehouse. The smell of the cigars and the noises of the voices were already sickening him. Without a look up or a word, he passed the spectators and entered the ring that was made of simple ropes and barbwires. He ignored the excited shoutings to sit in a corner on a small stool and he adjusted the bandages once more, waiting for his opponent to show up. He never knew who he was going to fight, he never asked. He supposed this was another reason for the owner of the warehouse, the man organizing the fights, to tolerate him so much. Chandler never asked anything.
Another man soon entered the ring. An Irish, obviously. Huge, redhaired, his bare chest already covered in sweat, the man was smelling like a barrel of whiskey. Chandler stood up and went to stand in the middle of the circle then he waited.
He was never the one hitting first and for a very good reason. That it was hard to believe or not, Chandler had never liked fighting. He had never enjoyed violence. Going to the army had never been his calling but his father had never let him another choice. His soon would be a soldier like he had been and his father before him. So Chandler had followed a path traced for him by generations he barely had known of.
And now here he was, knowing nothing else but to fight. All his foolish dreams had been buried the day he had put on an uniform for the first time. He had been obeying his father during all his childhood. And the day of his fifteenth birthday, he had been sent away to follow the orders of someone else, a rifle pushed in his hands and an enemy designed to him by one or the other officer.
But he had never enjoyed killing.
He wouldn't hit first because he needed a trigger. He needed a reason to get mad. He needed a reason to snap. After the first punch in his face, after the first taste of blood on his tongue, he would be able to lose control and to enter the fog that was his mind every time he had to fight. Everything happening after that was not his doing, it was the Rage. It was the Pain.
It was his Past.
A flash of pain blinded him when the Irish, exasperated to wait for a provocation, had hit him in the stomach. Chandler grunted and spit out a the Irish's feet before chuckling. He felt eyes on him, he heard vaguely people shouting at him to fight already. As he chuckled, the Irish was staring at him, not knowing how to react. Chandler saw him looking around as if the answer was on the face of the crowd. Encouraged by the rich and excited lords, the Irish shrugged and came at Chandler again to punch him but when he did, Chandler's eyes went darker and he took one small step sideway before grabbing surprisingly strongly and quick the Irish's wrist and using his own weight to twist the man's arm in order to get him to bend and stumble. Without releasing him, Chandler kicked the back of his knee with his feet and twisted the arm more as the Irish fell on both knees, groaning in pain and shocked indignation. He was twice the size of the Yankee….how could have he been overmastered so quickly?
Not losing any second -he knew the Iris was physically stronger than he was, he couldn't give him the opportunity to take the advantage-, Chandler turned on himself and punched the man behind the shoulder, where the shoulder and the twisted arm met. He heard a crack and it made him smirk. He punched and slammed again until he heard a louder crack then he unexpectedly released his opponent and stood back.
He spit out again, not surprised to see blood in his spit this time. Shit happened all the time lately.
The Irish literally howled in pain and managed to get up, his broken arm hanging uselessly along his side. His eyes widened, he rushed towards Chandler and punched him so hard in the face with his good hand that the world seemed to sparkle inside his head, red and white stars invading his sight. An insufferable pain rised from the base of his nose and caused him to snap. Finally.
He countered the next punch with his fist hitting the broken shoulder and a round kick towards the man's head, sending the Irish back and fall at the feet of the spectators, unconscious.
Chandler was about to rush towards him to hit him all the same but then his eyes fell on the man behind the unconscious Irish. He looked like just another rich spectator but his eyes ….seemed to pierce Chandler's soul. He froze and stared at him, out of breathe and aching. He felt exposed and …./seen/. Not just looked at. It felt like the man could /see/ him, all he was, all he had done.
He couldn't look away. The noises around him turned into a vague background music.
Suddenly, an impatient man behind him slapped his shoulder and shouted into his ear to cut it out and finish the fight. "HIT HIM. END IT, YOU VICIOUS DOG", the man yelled.
Chandler growled and instead of walking to the Irish, he turned around and hit the man behind him, causing quite a shocked gasp from the crowd. People started to shout in indignation but Chandler couldn't hear them. He wasn't here anymore. There was only his fist, punching the man over and over again then hands, dozens of them grabbing him, pulling him back, taking him away.
He had been thrown out into the back alley behind the warehouse.
Exhausted, sore, Chandler had leaned against the wall and slid against it to sit on the cold floor, resting his wrists on his knees. He rolled his head back to press it against the dirty wall and barely opened his eyes when the owner, furious and indignated, had come back to ditch his few belongs next to him before throwing at his face the few bills he had earned from his victory.
"That's all you'll get. The rest will have to cover that poor man's medical costs. You almost kill him, you insane piece of shit. I don't want to see you here ever again or I will call the police, ya hear me?" he had yelled before closing the door behind him.
Chandler snickered and sighed.
Well. At least, not every day was looking the same than the previous one.
He sighed again and winced, his chest aching. He guessed the few men that had been necessary to get him out had taken the opportunity to beat him on the way. He couldn't remember.
He opened his eyes and looked at his hands. Yes, the bandages had reached the end of the road this time. Just like him.
They were soaked in blood and he couldn't tell which blood it was. He wiped his bloody nose with his fist before starting to undo the bandages to see how bad it was this time. It wouldn't be the first time he broke his hands.
Probably explained why they were so hard to open in the morning. Their natural state were clenched fists now, that he was awake or not. Fighting when he was awake. Fighting when he was asleep.
He was too tired to go anywhere anyway. And he had nowhere to go.
Then he felt it.
There was someone else in the alley with him. Someone watching him.
He continued to undo the bandages, more slowly this time, all his senses in alert just in case.
"No more fight for me tonight", he said tiredly, loud enough to be heard.
"So if that's trouble you're looking for, I'll suggest you look elsewhere. I'm not having the best day right now."