I can hear my mom's voice from the kitchen as I cough.

"Are you ok, honey?"

"Yeah mom I'm good." I look at my hand it's red again. I glance at the doorway of my bedroom, just checking to make sure no one has seen me in one of my weaker moments. At the sink of the bathroom connected to my room I wash my hands and my face. Coughing up blood is more and more common these days.

"Come on honey dinner's ready."

"Yeah mom I'll be there in a sec."

In front of me above the sink sits a mirror that I have known far too long; long enough to remember when I could barely see the top of my head at its base and my growth. Long enough to watch my once sculpted body atrophy and slowly become a haunting memory of its former self. But I suppose I should explain that, huh? Its a long story and I'm not a very good story teller but if your really want to hear it I'll do my best.

A year ago I was in my junior year of high school. In those days I was one of those kids who knew everyone pretty well and was liked well enough. Or so I thought. I guess you call when people treat you well enough respect. Well... that's not terribly important so I'll continue. Around that time in junior year I had built up quite a potent reputation especially for a kid in your typical high school. You see I had started to change the year before, encouraged by my mom to join a club, I joined the wrestling team. From there I joined the boxing team and following that I was hanging out with the kids who studied martial arts and sometimes going with them to their sensei's classes. In school I gathered attention and I climbed the ranks of the social ladder from a nobody to one of the most highly sought after kids in the class.

I thought I had found the key to happiness; hard work and discipline. Every day after school I would go to wrestling practice or boxing practice on days when I didn't have a prior engagement I would spar with my friends or lift at the gym. My strength gave me happiness. All through middle school I had been a shrimp. A shrimp who was never good at anything. All I did was hang out with my friends and occasionally get into trouble. I never knew what I wanted to do with my life. Training gave me my answer.

But life is sometimes cruel. It was about a month into junior year when I ended up in my current condition. I guess it was because I got cocky or maybe I'm just too damn naive for my own good. Anyway I was walking home from school when I heard the noise. That noise that every person has fantasized hearing; a cry of distress. Looking back I really must have been an idiot. It wasn't like I was the only person who heard the noise plenty of adults were around who heard her. I was just the only one stupid enough to attempt to help her. She was, predictably, cornered in an alleyway barely a stone's throw away from the sidewalk. If it was right to at least come and see her situation it was definitely not right to do anything else but call the police.

Two guys faily heavyset were pressing themselves up against her and-

God damn it makes me upset to tell this. Are you sure you want to hear this? I mean its really only that bad from my point of view but still. Have you ever watched a rank of men armed with nothing but their fists and a few pitchforks charge a line of troops with automatic weapons? The end result is not pretty. Especially not in my case.-

and so I charged. I decked the first guy. It was a clean strike straight to the jaw. I guess I only connected because the guy was so surprised any one would actually have the nerve to stop them, but that didn't work on the second guy. The other guy took a step back and took out a knife. Now I know I told you I went to a few martial art sessions and its true I picked up a few things but never in my life had I had to deal with a weapon.

I guess it was my delay in acting that doomed me. By the time I had made up my mind to do something about the knife the other guy was back on his feet. At this point you must be thinking I'm an idiot and I don't blame you. Your thinking I should have run right? Well maybe your not thinking that or maybe you are it doesn't matter. Running is what I should have done. It was the only sane thing that I could have done; run and call the cops. But I saw the look in the young woman's eyes and I couldn't leave her. Had I phoned for help the two guys would have run off and I didn't want to let that happen.

Instead I moved forward foolishly confident of my skills, but as I said I was foolish. In a real fight there aren't any rules. There is no tapping out or giving up. No pinning, no knockout, no count, no points. A real fight has much higher stakes and more than pride is on the line. Real fights can be life or death. I think I may have stripped the knife from the second guy but the first one was on me as soon as I did so and after that I don't remember anything. Oh yeah, real fights don't have to be fair either. If you think beating one guy in a competition is hard beating two guys is at least five times as hard. That's right fighting two people at a time isn't like adding their strengths together its more like multiplying their strengths.

You won't be surprised to hear I woke up in the hospital. And since I woke up in that cold white room my life has crashed around me as quickly as my popularity had once risen. The doctors could never identify what exactly was wrong with me but they all said my current condition has something to do with trauma. A few of the ones with enough guts to explain it to me told me that it was likely that the thugs had beaten the shit out of me after I was already unconscious. The bastards had a lot of guts to beat a kid near to death after knocking him out.

It must have been a week since I woke up when I received a visit from the young woman from the alley. Its funny, even though I had only looked at her a few seconds that time I recognized her immediately. I suppose traumatic events stick out in your memory. She had come to thank me even though I hadn't saved her from her assailants. I'm sure you can guess what happened to her. She was thankful that she "had been heard", that's what she told me. If no one had come she said she would have not had any more faith in this world. A world in which you live your whole life and nothing bad ever happens and then one random sunny afternoon you are taken against your will by two thugs and-. She had tears in her eyes when she left. She said that she would see me again and by that time she would repay me.

I haven't seen her since but that doesn't really bother me. What ticks me off is that after eleven months of physical therapy my body is still so weak I could be over powered by a grade school student and that I can barely walk a flight of stairs before getting tired. I'm angry that I'm so helpless and that the world has laughed at my struggle to improve myself.

It took me a while to accept the fact that I wasn't the same person after the accident. People told me I was still me. They said, "Nothing has changed about you." But I can tell I'm different.

Lately I've been reading more. Honestly it's just unhealthy. Everytime I finish a story I get this sick feeling inside me. The hero engaged in life so powerfully while I sit in a dark room a simple reading light illuminating the pages. I struggle against the sheets at night when I sleep. Even in my dreams I am weak and the world mocks my efforts. Who can blame it? Internally we all mock the weak; I did it once too and now...

I still read. Even thought the pain it causes me is worse than any blow I have received. Masochism is what it is. The heroes journey through hell and back. I have to prepare myself for a flight up stairs. Mucsels that can't develop. A poor constitution. Friendless and alone. I try not to pity myself but its impossible.

I go to dinner. I talk with my mom. I read. I sleep. I skip school a lot. My life is hollow without purpose. I wait until death takes me. Waiting to feel a hand grasp my soul and yank it from my body with a sudden jerk. That is how I spend my days. That is how I will spend the rest of my life.