Time is a funny thing. It passes by a lot quicker than you realize, and by the time you do, its too late.
A few weeks had passed by since the incident in the locker-room had happened, and I seemed to be being left alone, for one reason or another. At first I didn't care; I was happy to be given a respite from the incessant hazing and abuse that ran rampant through our academy, but as the days turned to weeks without being bothered by the usual suspects, I began to get curious. Unfortunately, when you're left with few friends except for the other boxing guys and your coach, there's little you can do in terms of investigating why.
I think I was too young to understand the similarities between "hazing" and the old adage of "boys will be boys" when I first joined the Youth. I understand that in other countries, such as the United States, "bullying" and hazing are getting strictly clamped down. I read during one of my foreign culture lectures that a state called 'New Jersey' had recently adopted a very stringent "anti-bullying" law, championed by their walrus-sized Governor. Many of us in the class didn't understand why what we considered "character-building" experiences were illegal in the United States. I had always been taught that they were a country of strong-minded and strong-willed people, but I guess times change.
None the less, I understand the similarities I mentioned before very well now. What the Americans call "bullying" and "hazing" is a principal part of our society here in Alte-Koniggratz: its practically a substitute for parents for those of us sent away to National Political Academies throughout the country. Much like our ancestors, who fought tooth-and-nail through the streets of our cities during past wars, we are forced to fight: however in a much different capacity. Everything here at the academy is a competition: If you're not the best at whatever you do, you better become the best or sooner or later you're going to have your ass kicked so hard you won't wake up anymore. I'm lucky enough to be considered the "best" at something: boxing. Its always been my passion, and its what got me into the academy in the first place.
Boxing's provided a lot of things for me: outside of the opportunity to attend the "prestigious" Lions Guard Academy, its given me something to hold onto during the hard times. Throughout the recession, during my parents infighting, and especially during the problems with Erik, being able to beat the living shit out of someone in the middle of the ring was cathartic: especially so when I faced competitors from other academies around the country and large audiences gathered to cheer me on. The sight of over a hundred people filling in every gap around the ring and screaming at the top of their lungs when I knocked someone on their ass when they least expected it helped my fragile self esteem quite a bit.
Even more so when some of the people cheering were the guys who constantly hazed me.
For a time, I thought being good at boxing would shield me from the continued harassment from the several groups which targeted loners such as myself. Unfortunately, I was horribly wrong. After the competitions ended, especially during the off-season, I was just as much of a target as the guys who prided themselves on being able to replicate a painting, stroke for stroke, by someone from the 18th century. I guess ripping the boxers off a champion boxer who, often enough, refuses to fight back is a lot of fun. I guess it makes you feel like you're better than him. I don't really know.
Let me get back to the "now".
I found myself steadily running in place in the middle of the ring, sweating profusely. My opponent, who so happened to be considered the school "champion" before I was recruited to attend here, was bleeding from his lower lip. His head tucked down, he looked to be in position to throw another jab.
And so he did.
As his glove-covered fist flew through the air, time seemed to slow: I dodged out of the way, and while his arm was still mid swing, sent a strike straight into his stomach. Then I sent another jab straight into his face, and watched as his head moved back after the concussion with my glove.
He fell backwards and onto his ass in the corner of the ring, struggling to get back up: he looked up at me, almost pleading to let him get back up.
I thought about it for a moment, then remembered the time he stole my kit-bag two weeks after I arrived at the academy because he considered me a "threat".
A lot of people on the boxing team considered me a threat back then. Most of them still do.
I looked at him, and as he gave me a bit of a thanking smirk, I nodded.
And then I knocked him out.
It was pretty easy, after all: he weighed about eighty-one KG, close to my weight, but was markedly less built and lacking adequate hand-eye coordination. His eyes locked onto mine at the exact moment my glove slammed into his face once again, and he slowly fell to the ground, likely already out before his head slammed into the ring's mat. My best victories were always won right as the person I was fighting let their guard down.
Time seemed to return to normal speed. I watched as the ref swung under the ropes and into the ring, counting down the time Francis remained on the ground. 1-2-3-4-5.
He was out.
The ref looked to me and smiled, and I looked out into the few people who were in the crowd. Our coach, Edgar, smiled at me as he clapped.
"You never cease to amaze me, Friedrich" He yelled towards me as I swung under the ropes and hopped off the ring. I moved towards him and held my gloves out, listening to him as he untied them and pulled them off.
"You make me very proud, you know. Considering what you've been through and how far you've come since you first came here."
I sighed a little, and stayed quiet for a moment, before responding: "Thanks coach".
He smiled, something that I was told was rare before I came around. Coach was tough: he wanted a championship no matter what the circumstances nor consequences would be. He was known to be violent, brutal, and unforgiving: we often went through extremely long runs from the campus all the way through the city and to the farmlands outside of the city, which would take up most of the day, and return only to have to box each other.
I was told someone had died after having gone through the "ice-water test", where two holes are drilled in the ice of a frozen lake and you have to dive in, in only your underwear, and swim to the other hole.
Scuttlebutt says the guy committed suicide, drowning himself in the middle of the ice on purpose.
My attention snapped back to Coach Edgar as he patted me on the shoulder, remarking "alright now Friedrich, get to the showers"
I grabbed my gloves that he'd dropped on the ground and wandered off to the large communal showers. Standing in front of one of the large sink basins, I grabbed a cloth and started to wipe the blood off of my cheek as I looked myself over.
Blond, built, blue eyed, six foot tall. You could argue I was a girls dream guy. Shame I'm gay, I guess.
I started to undress, pulling the white wife beater with the symbol of our school stitched into the front off of my body and tossing it over my shoulder as I wandered over to the showers. I pulled the rest of my clothes off and tossed them over a hook as I turned the shower on and stood under the steaming hot water. The combination of cool November air seeping through the windows and the steaming water falling on my body made all of my muscles relax.
I'm not really sure how long I spent in the showers, but it was long enough. I eventually turned off the water and pulled a towel around my waist, carrying my clothes and myself towards my locker. I began to put on a fresh uniform, the jet black wool of the tunic standing out compared to the rest of the white tiled room. I was about half-way dressed when things went awry.
Its weird, its almost as if I was taken off-guard. As I stood there adjusting the position of one of the ribbons on my tunic, my pants were yanked to the ground. I stumbled as I turned around, and found myself face-to-face with a group of six guys. My mind began to race and immediately clicked back into fighting mode, but it seemed to be to no avail.
"You take a fuckin' long time to shower, mate" the thick, Oceanic accented twenty year old stated.
I glared at him; Jack, an exchange student from Australia. Before I had the chance to respond, a fist was flying towards me. I ducked and went to grab his wrist, but before I knew it I was crashing to the ground.
From there on, it was all torture. I couldn't defend myself. Not from six guys piling over me. No matter my skills.
The second I landed on my chest the boots started flying into my sides. A stomp on my back and constant pressure kept me pinned as they continually sent kicks into my sides; they went after the weak spots, south from where the ribs lie, close to the stomach.
Their screams of joy and laughter pissed me off. I tried to get up, but the boot holding me down stomped down again. I heard my back crack. I was lucky it wasn't damaged.
They continued to laugh as they suddenly pulled my off of the ground and threw me straight into the metal lockers across the room. I stumbled, grabbing my face in pain as I tried to turn and fight them. One of them, about five foot nine, raced towards me with his fist held high. I was actually able to grab it this time, and threw him to the ground.
It was a short lived victory.
Within seconds, they were all over me again. Two of them held my arms out as Jack continually punched me in the gun. The pain started to take over; when you've boxed for most of your life, you learn to block it out, but there comes a point where it starts to take over.
The laughter and mocking didn't help. One of them suggested getting a pair of scissors out and cutting my hair. I prayed not. I just hung my head low, trying to break free from their grasp every so often, but I just couldn't.
I found my breath shorter and shorter. I was getting close to my pain threshhold.
Suddenly, the fists stopped. I looked up after a moment, and made eye contact with Jack. Behind him, holding an ice-pack to his lip, was Andrew. He smirked, and Jack seemed to stare into my soul.
All of a sudden, a knee slammed straight up into my crotch, and I doubled over in pain.
They laughed like fucking jackals, and let go of me as I fell to the ground in pain. I clenched my groin, breathing extremely heavily as I tried to fight off the pain.
Things went quiet out of the blue. There were whispers from the peanut gallery.
Suddenly I felt a hand shoot down the back of my uniform pants. I tried to yell out for help, but nothing came out. All of a sudden my head was locked between someone's thighs and my ass was in the air with someone pulling as hard as they could on my boxers.
It seemed to last forever. They just kept pulling, occasionally giving slack only to yank back up moments later. The laughter was louder than ever. The seam of my boxers felt like it was literally going to cut me in half. As my vision started to fade in and out to black, I tried to yell for help, but little came out.
In between my fading vision, there were flashes. The distinct tapping sound of IPhones being texted on. Suddenly my boxers gave way, and I crashed to the floor of the locker room.
And then everything went black.