September 1985, Marley
When Annie Leonhart immigrated to the States and was bullied for not speaking English, she figured she had two choices: focus and study hard to learn the language, or beat these little shits' asses. She decided to do both.
Annie was only seven years old when she and her father moved to Marley from Germany. He was a well-known kickboxer back home and had gotten a contract to work in the States. It was sudden when they packed their bags, took passport photos, and got on a plane, moving to a small apartment in a grubby neighborhood. But Annie was used to living in small spaces, had adjusted to life in the city, seemingly surrounding by darkness and flashing lights.
He fought the first weekend they arrived. Before she could even unpack her suitcase or take a bath. She came with him. She always came with him. She wasn't supposed to, but he had no choice. She would stand in the sidelines, holding his agent's hand. The lady was young and pretty, teased blonde hair, wearing a grey pencil skirt that hugged her figure, a matching blazer with shoulder pads.
She would hold Annie's hand, but it was always a loose hold. Just tight enough not to lose her. Sometimes she wondered what would happen if she ran away. Such a sight it would have been, a little child dressed in baby pink pants and My Little Pony sweater, her ponytail bouncing as she ran in an arena full of men, white sneakers squeaking against the floor. The sound would be flushed out by all the groans and grunts, the drunken cheering. She wondered if her father would notice her while he was in the ring, would see her sprint, her call for attention. Would he stop the fight? Would he care?
It was the smell of cigarette smoke and stringent aftershave. Flashing lights and music pulsing with electronic beats and synthesizers. The women wore leather jackets and tall hairstyles. Lips a fiery shade of red, blue pigment smudged against their eyes. Annie thought they were the coolest. She wanted to be like them.
When Annie started school, she realized the girls who looked more like her were nothing like her. She discovered it was the children who were different from her who she related to. Despite her strawberry blonde hair and light skin, she was unaccepted, unwanted. Whenever girls would smile, it was in mockery. They laughed at her clothes, her voice, and it fucking sucked because she didn't have the words to defend herself. Really, she didn't have the words because of the damn language barrier. Just to have the chance to curse them out and stand up for herself.
Annie didn't have recess because it was during that hour where they would take her and the rest of the foreigners to a room they called "bilingual class." At first, she had no idea what it was. Nobody spoke German, and every kid there was fluent in every other language but English. How would this teach her English? Why did they group every ethnic kid as if they were the same? The logic was bizarre. But she somehow made friends there. Despite the fact they could barely communicate with each other. It was something they had in common, she supposed.
Annie's bedroom was small, but it was her own. A space for privacy, to think, to listen to the radio. The carpet was a dark, muddy brown, and she liked to curl her small bare toes against it, gripping at the old fibers. The walls were probably once white, but now a more creamy, yellowy color. She used a dresser that had already been there to store her clothes, wiping off all of the dust herself.
She had nothing but her boombox and a cassette player she had brought with her from Germany. She would spend hours tuning into the radio, lying on her bed with the boombox beside her, listening to songs she couldn't understand the words to. But the music and the rhythm moved her, the beats vibrating in her chest, the melodies catchy and harmonic.
Sometimes she brought the cassette player with her to the fights, to drown out the noise and chaos. She had recorded some songs off the radio she liked. One of her favorites was a Madonna song. She didn't know what it was called. It was a slower pop ballad. The contrast of the music while watching her father shove a push kick into his opponent's stomach somehow soothed her. The headphones taut against her head and ears, gone was the raucous, the yelling and the cheering. The agent was holding her, had picked her up as if she was her own daughter, and Annie rested against her shoulder, listening to the music, observing the way her dad would fight.
He was tall, his skin touched by the sun, unlike the ivory hue of her own. Short brown hair nearly cut into a buzz, his body solid and framed with lean muscle. She eyed the ring, the navy-blue color of the matts, the swarms of people surrounding the circumference of the room. Was everyone really here to see her dad? Or just to watch two men nearly kill each other? It was a barbaric sport. But she couldn't look away. The Madonna song caressed her ears, the visual of the fight stimulating her eyes.
Hands up, hips squared, left foot tapping in front. His foot twisted when he threw his back foot forward. The kicking seemed to be more important than the punching. And there was a lot of kicking, pacing the floor, trying to predict and catch movements.
He won that fight, like many others. She pretended to fall asleep as he carried her to her room, taking off her shoes as he tucked her into bed. She felt the warm kiss against her forehead, and waited for him to leave before she opened her eyes, succumb by the darkness. A yellow light filled the space when she turned on her lamp, and she opened the window to get a cool breeze, the sounds of traffic and wind comforting her. It was almost like living in the city in Germany. She could pretend she was still there, and not here in this foreign country.
Annie took off her clothes, putting on an undershirt and loose shorts. She could see her reflection in the old, streaky mirror that stood in the center of her room. She looked like a dumb little kid in her underclothes. How could she look as strong and fearless as her dad?
Square hips, arms up, left foot forward. She let her hands gather into fists in front of her face. Something still looked off, and she curled her toes against the carpet, feeling the friction underneath her feet. She was too stiff, her dad had range of motion, light on his feet. Tapping her foot, she moved about the small space of room, maintaining her stance.
She recounted vividly the image of her father throwing his back leg, the top of his ankle smashing into his opponent's jaw. It looked so simple yet powerful. And she took a deep breath before she tried it. Weak, sluggish. She tried again. And again. It wasn't as easy as he made it look. Maybe she needed something to kick?
She pondered for a moment, eyeing the pillow on her bed, and a thought crossed her mind. Please still have it, please still have it…She searched her drawers for her bike chain from Germany, for a bike so no longer had. And she released an elated sigh when she discovered it shoved between dresses she never wore. The link jingled quietly as she dragged it from her dresser, then taking the pillow and ripping a hole into the pillowcase.
There was a hop to her step when she opened her closet door. It was nearly empty, her suitcase and some clothes decorating the dark interior. She pushed everything to the side as she maneuvered the chain against the top railing, hanging the pillow like a heavy bag she would see at the martial arts gyms.
She was proud of her work, and she watched the pillow swing for a moment, the link creaking as it moved. Taking her stance again, Annie lifted her arms near her face, feeling her abdominals contract, a flex to the top of her thigh. She exhaled as she released a punch into the bag. This one was called a jab, she thought. She did it again. The pillow swiveled around, the chain looping in a circle. It felt so good, that she did it again, this time with her right hand. It was a more powerful, comfortable punch.
Jab, cross. Jab jab, cross. She was stalling, afraid to throw the kick. What if she hit the doorframe and fucked up her foot? Maybe she just had to catch the pillow as it was swinging towards her. Jab, cross. Jab jab, cross. As it moved forward, she closed her eyes and released the roundhouse kiss. When she felt her foot touch the soft cushion of the pillow, she finally exhaled.
Annie practiced that night until she was drenched in sweat, high from the adrenaline. She felt so alive, so free and connected to her body. When she was hitting the pillow, she forgot that she was no longer in Germany, that she couldn't speak the language of the country. All she could think of was the stutter of her heart, how it pounded in her chest from the exertion, the force that evaded her. She wondered what her dad would think if he saw her then. Would he be proud?
She kept her pillow chained inside the closet in secrecy. To her dad, she was his little sunflower. Annie feared he would be disappointed if he discovered she wanted to be a fighter like him. Or worse, he would stop taking her to his matches. So during the day she wore her cute overalls and pigtails, swinging her feet as she ate her bowl of cereal in the kitchen. And eagerly she would await nightfall, when she was supposed to be asleep, to release all of her frustration onto the poor pillow.
But when she was taken to the principal's office two weeks later, she knew she would never be his little sunflower again.
The girls who looked like her were nothing like her. It was the girls who didn't look like her who she connected with. The American girls were little mean fucking bitches. Was it because they were pretty? Or because they could speak English so well? But the other girls were pretty too. They just looked different. Why were they so mean because of that? Why did nobody stop them?
There was one girl from her bilingual class. She wore a very pretty scarf on her head. Some days she wore different scarves. It was so pretty, and Annie wished she could have told her. They communicated through smiles and struggled greetings, sometimes drawing pictures together instead of working on the bilingual assignments. Her skin was the color of honey and so were her eyes.
Honey was sweet and sugary. So why did these little bitches pick on her? Annie remembered the look in her eyes that morning as they waited outside before school in their respective lines. Two girls, one blonde and one brunette, their side ponytails blowing against the wind, hot pink windbreakers zipped up all the way to their necks. They were tugging on honey's scarf, as if to pull it off of her head. She was so upset and crying. Why would they do that to her? Why?
Something in Annie snapped that morning. And she realized she didn't need to know English to tell these girls how she felt. She didn't need to use words. Her sneakers stomped against the pavement as she approached them and stepped in front of honey. She didn't know what the fuck they were saying, but she wasn't stupid. She knew that she abruptly became the subject of their ridicule.
And so up close to them, Annie realized that they weren't really that pretty. They both looked the same. All these bitches looked the same. And it seemed their goal was to bring anyone down who was even remotely different.
The sun was shining beautifully that morning when she beat the shit out of those two girls. A crowd had gathered around her, cheering her on. And it felt good when she pulled on their ponytails, watching them cry just as they made honey cry.
When she punched their boring pretty faces and felt the crack of their bones against her knuckles, hearing their shriveled girly shrieks. Blood was dripping from their noses, their mouths. They looked so ugly when they cried. Annie figured they must not have been that pretty after all.
She was taken to the principal's office briskly following the fight. Her father joined the room eventually, sitting beside her. She kept her head down, glaring at her bruised knuckles, decorated with speckles of someone else's blood. It was hot in there, and she wished she could just take off her jacket. She could hear them talking, not understanding a single word spoken. The principal's clear voice alongside her father's heavy accent. They were talking about her. About what she did. Neither of them asked why she did it.
She didn't know what was said about her. She just knew she didn't go back to school for two more weeks afterwards. Her father parked the car on the street outside of their apartment. She watched him manually roll up his window, the vibrato of the engine dying as he turned the key. And they sat there in silence for a long while, his gaze forward, brows pressed and forming creases at his forehead.
"Why?" he spoke to her in their native tongue, rubbing his hand at his face generously. "Why, Annie?"
She didn't know what to say, her exhale shaky and nervous. "They…they deserved it."
She jerked when he slammed his palm against the steering wheel, briefly honking the horn. Tears warmed her eyes when she saw the disappointment in his, and she felt herself shrivel in the front seat.
"You're not coming to the fights anymore."
She tried to argue, but he silenced her. "You are going to learn something. Dance, sing, anything else but fighting. I want you to be a normal little girl."
Annie spent the two weeks away from school confined to her room. And she used her time listening to music and hitting the pillow hidden in her closet. It was late in September when a song she had yet to hear played on the radio. It caught her ears almost instantly. Upbeat, pop, catchy synths and melody. The DJ said the name of the song several times, but she struggled to catch it. But she recognized the artist because he was a famous actor.
When it came on again an hour later, the DJ said it once more. The new single "Party All the Time" by Eddie Murphy.
It played on the radio throughout the entire day, and Annie became obsessed with the song. She turned up in the volume in her boombox, dancing in nothing but her undershirt and shorts, her bangs bobbing as she moved her body wildly and enthusiastically. She was a horrible dancer, but she didn't care. She loved this fucking song. It was the best song she ever heard.
The following day, Annie was on a mission. She found a cassette and stuck tissue in the holes at the top, securing it inside her boombox. Sitting on her bed with her legs folded over each other, she was wearing a short-sleeved violet Care Bears nightgown, and she wiggled her toes impatiently as she waited for the song to come on. Pursing her lips, she could feel her heartbeat accelerate, her breathing falter, while her fingers hovered over the play and record buttons on her radio.
And next we have the new single "Party All the Time" by Eddie Murphy.
When the DJ spoke the words, her fingers shot down in precise timing, and she watched the tape begin to spin as it recorded the music blasting from her radio. She jumped up from the bed, dancing in her nightgown, shuffling her feet against the carpet, waiving her arms above her head as she moved her body chaotically. And she kept repeating the same words, the only ones she could make out.
My girl wants to party all the time, party all the time, party all the time.
Once Annie had recorded the song, she listened to it nonstop on her cassette player, the music roaring from the headphones directly into her ears. She could hear every part of it that made it the best song ever. The smooth vocals, the synths and beat. And the lyrics. She had no fucking clue what he was saying. But it must have been deep, profound. By the end of the week, she memorized nearly all the words to the song just from listening to it nonstop.
When Annie went back to school, nobody messed with her anymore. They didn't pick on her or on honey. They seemed to be afraid of her. And she liked it that way. Even more excited she was to use her newfound English skills. When her teacher greeted her, she smiled and said in a very thick accent, "You give your number to every man you see."
Her dad was unusually quiet when he picked her up from school that afternoon. He didn't seem particularly mad, and she had been behaving herself for the past two weeks. So why was he not talking to her, asking her how her day was? Maybe he was still upset with her for beating up those little bitches?
Yet, when they climbed the flight of stairs and entered their apartment, she froze when she saw what was lying on their couch.
It was her fighting pillow, with her bike chain still attached to it. She heard the door creak close behind her, and she was too stunned to remove her jacket, slip of her shoes. She could feel the tightness of her ponytail pulling at her scalp, the dry lump that suddenly lodged in her throat. And she expected to hear the yelling at any moment. For him to stand before her and shout angered words at her in German.
But instead, he took off his shoes and walked leisurely to the couch, sitting beside the pillow as if it were an actual person. His legs were parted comfortably, crinkles pressing at the knee of his jeans. She watched him rub at his face, a soft, yet exasperated sigh fleeing his mouth.
"I told you I don't want you fighting."
Annie cleared her throat, still standing by the door. "I'm not fighting."
The look he gave her was unreadable, a pinch pressing between his brows. "Then what is this I found in your room?"
She shrugged her shoulders, a slouch to her back as she shoved her hands into her pockets and paced uncomfortably. "I was just practicing."
"Practicing for what?"
The blue of her eyes trembled while she looked at him, a timid quiver to her bottom lip as she swallowed the truth. She couldn't tell him she wanted to be a fighter just like him. Confess how good it felt when she punched and kicked the goddamn pillow. He said he wanted her to be a normal little girl. But inside she knew she was a hellish brute.
His lips squirmed and then he rose from the bed. "Get my hand wraps, Annie."
She hesitated for a moment before following orders, removing her shoes and jacket as she walked in an oversized Barbie turtleneck sweater and black leggings towards his duffle bag at the other end of the room. She pulled out a clean, neatly rolled pair of red hand wraps. When she brought them to him, he shook his head.
"Wrap your hands. You know how."
And she did, looping the wraps around her palms and knuckles and adhering the velcro against her wrists. Many times he had brought her to the gym with him and had her wrap his hands. This was the first time she did it on herself. She relished in the tight feeling of the fabric shielding her bones, her tendons flexing beneath.
When he stood, she watched him grab two large pads from behind the couch. She had also seen him use them at the gym, and when he pushed the table away, suddenly they were left with a wide-open space. He slipped the pads against his arms, holding them up with precision.
"Put on my gloves."
She nearly sprinted back to the duffle bag, retrieving the large gloves. They were a very shiny black, and she could feel that they were still wet with sweat inside when she slid her hands within. They looked comically large on her, and her fists felt rather heavy in them. But she ignored it, skipping back to her father and throwing up her arms.
"Now show me how you hit that pillow."
A sharp breath huffed from her nostrils as she fell into position and threw a straight jab into the pad. It felt different from hitting her pillow. Better, more powerful. She hit it again, throwing more punches, exhaling from her mouth.
"Kick the pads, Annie."
She grunted when she swung her back leg, her shin colliding into the pads as he pressed both of them together. And she did it again, And again. Kicking, throwing punches, losing herself in the moment, from the euphoria of physically releasing everything pent up in that tiny body of hers.
And her father watched her, observing her moves, her momentum, her technique. Remaining silent, attentive, alert. It was the first time she saw fire in his eyes when looking at her. The same flames that burned whenever he was in the ring.
Spring 1996, Marley
Not even the padded helmet could protect her when Annie jabbed the point of her elbow into her face.
Annie hated the headgear, the oversized gloves and padding they needed to wear against their shins. It made her feel heavier, slowed her down. If she could fight fucking naked, she would. But it didn't matter, because no one was a match for her. Girls her own size, girls much bigger than her. Even fucking men. She pummeled them all to the ground during sparring sessions at the gym. And her dad was always there, watching her with pride gleaming in his eyes.
And as she observed her latest challenger collapse onto the mats, confirming her victory, Annie took the time to catch her breath, sweat smeared against her forehead and damping her sports bra as she threw her boxing gloves down and freed her head from its protection.
Her long, bleach blonde ponytail swung as she held the headgear in the pit of her elbow, trickles of sweat dripping down her temples and cheeks. There was a visible rise and fall of her chest, and she looked down at the girl below her, struggling to get up.
She was maybe five inches taller than Annie, lean, and much heavier. But she had just had the wind knocked out of her by a petite girl no more than five feet tall. Annie didn't offer her a hand, instead walking away towards her father.
He stood gallantly with arms folded over his chest. The smile he tried to conceal was creeping through, and Annie stretched her fingers, cracking her joints, her skin wet and slippery.
"You are a killer," he said to her, pride dripping from his voice. And she rolled her eyes, her legs feeling stiff from the shin guards. When he extended his arms, cupping his palms, she spit her mouthguard into his hands.
"I haven't killed anyone yet."
"Try not to before the big fight next week."
She smiled slightly as she took a seat on the bench, curling her bare toes against the smooth blue mats. A hunch curved her spine, and she could still feel the hammering of her pulse. He sat beside her, and she focused on the bottom half of his exposed legs from his muay thai shorts. She thanked god she wasn't as hairy as he was.
"I know, you said it a million times. This is a big fight for me. Life changing. I know, I know." She shoved his shoulder playfully, her eyes shifting to a boxer hitting a heavy bag in front of her. She was always interested in different fighting techniques. Though they shared similar punches, there was something unique about boxers. All they had was their punch. And so they needed to make it count.
She saw her father's brows slant in mild concern as he looked at her, reaching a hand to cup her cheek. She tried to shrug him off, but he was persistent.
"Sweetheart, why is your face so red?"
Annie frowned. His hand was so big it nearly swallowed her face. "Maybe because I've been working out for the last two hours?"
He shook his head however, eyes narrowing as he observed her, bringing his face closer. "No, it looks like a sunburn. Were you tanning?"
"Does it look like I tan?" She scoffed a laugh, beginning to undo the straps on her shin guards.
"Just stay out of the sun. I don't want you burning your skin off."
"I'm fine, dad. Relax." He seemed to drop the subject then.
When she went into the locker room, her legs felt like bricks, despite being free from the confines of the padding. She felt the heaviness when she lifted her knees to remove her shorts, her underwear. When she slipped off her sports bra, she stood there naked for a moment, alone in the locker room. The lights were a bright white, some of them flickering. Her feet cold against the tile, she stared at her reflection.
She was decorated in bruises, dark blue and purple marks against creamy skin. Her body was lean but possessed the gentle curves that made her more feminine than the other fighters. She released her hair from the ponytail, allowing its length to fall over her shoulders, cloaking the small mounds of her breasts. Her nipples perked against the tresses, the hair by her scalp stiff from sweat.
And she saw it then, the rash on her face. She had noticed remnants of it for the past week, but it did look more apparent today. How it painted her cheeks, across the bridge of her nose. She rubbed at her skin. It felt warm, but it didn't itch or bother her.
But her knees did, they felt heavy, tired. A bit off. She didn't feel the extent of it until the next morning.
The alarm on her digital clock woke her up for school. And as she reached towards her nightstand and hushed the noise, she realized she felt like she had been run over by a truck. It was a type of fatigue she wasn't used to. Pulling the blanket off of her body, Annie looked down at her exposed legs. Both her knees looked swollen, yet appeared as a blank canvas void of any bruising. It was painful trying to get out of bed, a pulsing at her inflamed skin.
"What the fuck," she grumbled under her breath, a wave of dizziness taking her, that she had to sit upright and blink several times to rearrange her vision. Why did she feel like this? Did she pull a muscle or something? Multiple muscles? She must have. Maybe dislocated her knee caps. It really fucking hurt.
She wore sweats and an oversized pullover to class, keeping to herself as she hid behind her hair. Her knees felt worse throughout the day, and it was gradual yet noticeable how the pain and swelling steadily increased. She needed to focus on her breathing to control the throbbing.
A few more days. A few more days to feel better, to get over whatever injury happened to her body so she could be in optimal fighting condition. So she decided she would take it easy, allow herself time to relax and heal.
When she got home from school, she ransacked the cupboards in the kitchen until she found a bottle of aspirin. Shoving two pills in her mouth, she swallowed them without water, trudging to her room as she closed the door and collapsed onto her bed.
And she lied there atop her sheets, eyes half closed, feeling the throbbing of her knees, the pressure traveling up and down her legs. It hurt to lie still, to even fucking breathe. There was no position she could get into that would relieve her of the pain.
She waited for the aspirin to kick in, but it barely made a difference.
"Fuck," she whispered coarsely to herself, reaching for the cassette player she had beneath her pillow.
Even adjusting her back to do that one simple thing hurt like hell. Placing the headphones over her ears, she rested the walkman on the small slope of her chest, her thumb hitting the play button. A song she had recorded off the radio last week sprang to her ears. Ironic by Alanis Morrisette.
The moment she heard it, it became one of her favorite songs. The pacing, the guitar and rhythm. The fucking words. Annie's English was perfect now, her diction clean and so American no one would have guessed she was ESL unless they heard her speak German. And now she could resonate with lyrics to these songs. But nothing would ever beat Party All the Time, the song that taught her English. The best fucking song in the world.
She drifted off to sleep, the music blaring against her eardrums, the aching in her knees unrelenting. And she neglected her homework, the shower, even eating. It hurt too much to fucking move.
And isn't it ironic...don't you think?
Two days passed, and the pain didn't get better. Not even a little bit. Shouldn't it have started to heal by now? She began to consider if maybe she broke a bone. But both of her knees? The probability of that was low, especially since there had been no huge impact to the joints. It had just started so randomly, the pain coming out of nowhere.
Her dad saw her limping out of her room. She tried to play it off. He was still looking at her face.
"The rash is getting worse."
She shrugged, slipping her backpack over her shoulder. She could feel the momentum of her movement in her knees and she winced.
He grabbed the keys from the table, a frown cursing his mouth as he approached her. "Are you limping?"
"I'm fine," she shot back more quickly than she would have liked. She met his stare, and tried smiling. It came out as an uncomfortable look on her face. "Don't worry about me. I must have pulled a muscle. I'll be fine in a few days."
But he stopped her from stumbling her way towards the door, securing his palm against her shoulder.
"Maybe I should take you to a doctor."
"No. I'm fine. That's a waste of time." She saw his hesitance and sighed. "I would tell you if something's wrong. I promise."
Another day and nothing. She found the school drug dealer standing by his locker. He was preppy, cute, annoyingly American. On his way to an Ivy League school. Too bad his parents didn't know he sold cigarettes and weed to other rejects at this school.
She approached him suddenly, slamming his locker close as she stood before him. He had barely had the chance to grab his books without nearly getting his hand cut off. He ran fingers through perfect, thick, parted brown hair, looking down at her with interest.
"What's up?"
"I need drugs," she shot back almost angrily, not even attempting to keep her voice low. And he looked her up and down, watching her small body shrouded in baggy clothes, leaning against the locker for support as her rash spread over her face, and he half smiled.
"Already looks like you're on something," he mused. But she smashed him against the locker then, a resounding bang echoing as he hit the surface, a flare to her nostrils. It gathered attention from several students walking by.
"I'm serious, asshole."
Yet, he laughed at her hostility, taking her shoulders and carefully detaching her from him. "Alright, no problem. Meet me after school—"
"No." Her tone was heavy, dire. "I don't want fucking weed. I need Vicodin."
His look towards her was bizarre. "Where the hell am I supposed to get that?"
"I don't know. White people always have Vicodin. I'm sure one of your rich friends has some."
Annie's eyes were glistening, holding back tears, barely able to support herself. The pain was getting unbearable, a wave of fatigue claiming her body. He seemed to pity her, watching her stand there so weak and exhausted. But he had no fucking clue what she was going through, what was on the line for her.
"Ok," he sighed, rubbing at his temple as he held his textbooks against his chest. "Give me a day. I'll see what I can do."
And a day passed. It was the longest fucking day of her life. But he found her the drugs, and she gave him every dollar she could muster to pay for them.
The fight was two days away. She could barely walk, stand, even fucking sit down. And she lied sprawled on her bed in a large tee shirt and underwear, staring up at the blank ceiling. The same Alanis Morrisette song played from her headphones and she turned up the volume as loud as her ears would physically allow her.
She slipped two Vicodin pills in her mouth, swallowing them dry as she shoved the remainder of the prescription bottle beneath her pillow. It took twenty minutes before she could feel anything, and she wasn't sure if it was a relief of pain, or the fucking buzz she felt from the drugs. Because it made her high, strung out, the pain only a dull reminder. The walls were white, decorated with nothingness, but somehow she could see them moving. And it made her want to laugh. She felt giddy, dazed. It was a fucking disaster.
She fought in the same ring she watched her dad pummel men to the ground in so many times.
Make-up covered the redness on her face, even though she knew she would sweat through it. Her knees were so swollen that they looked gross, almost deformed. Annie took several Vicodin pills an hour before the match, as she sat on a bench in the locker room.
She struggled to wrap the ace bandages against her knee. In part to conceal the swelling, and also thinking the restriction of blood flow might help with the pain. It didn't take long for the pills to kick in, that a lingering hope began to fill her form. Everything became a blur to her. It was almost pleasant.
And she smiled when she looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She has been waiting for the day to wear this outfit, a white and red matching set, the sports bra supporting her breasts, while the shorts hung loosely from her hips. The hand wraps were secured against her palms and knuckles, hair tied up away from her face. A gleam of confidence glistened in her eyes. But she was too high to fucked up to realize it was more like a forewarning doom.
She secured the mouthguard, feeling her teeth slide into place, swallowing the rush of saliva that gathered in her throat. And there she took her gloves, feeling the plod of her knees as she exited the room.
And that was all she could clearly remember about that night, right before she took the ring. No headgear or shin guards. Her first real fight, her father's agent watching her in the crowd. When the bell sounded, and the match began. She remembered none of it. She collapsed onto the floor before her opponent even had the chance to strike her.
Maybe it was the drugs, or the dizziness. But Annie knew it was from the goddamn pain. That she stammered onto the matted ground with a sharp cry, embracing her knees. She remembered screaming, wailing. Her eyes shut and she blacked out before her father and referees carried her from the ring.
~oOo~
A round of oral steroids seemed to cure her. Until it happened again. And again. And her father decided it was time to see a specialist.
It had been three months since the disaster of a fight. She hadn't been in the ring since, and her dad refused to let her spar. She had been reduced to hitting the pads, and only if he held them for her. It was fucking hell, especially since she initially deemed the condition a freak attack on her body.
The doctor was young, somewhat handsome. So Annie convinced herself he had no fucking idea what he was talking about when he diagnosed her.
"What the fuck is lupus?"
She kicked her feet as she was perched atop the exam table like some fucking specimen, her posture slouched while her fingers gripped at the film of paper underneath her. Her dad sat at a chair beside her, his legs crossed as he shot her an angry glance.
"Annie."
The doctor frowned unemotionally, shifting his stool as he looked down at the pages pinned to his clipboard.
"It's an autoimmune disease. It's what is causing these flare-ups you've been experiencing. The acute arthritis in your knees, the rash on your face. The dizzy spells."
She looked at him blankly, shrinking into her pullover. "Okay, so how do I get rid of it?"
"You can't."
She could feel the tension from her dad, how he rubbed his hand over his face and sighed, kneading at his temples. And suddenly she felt a heaviness reside in her chest, as if everything around her was collapsing. Because this was no longer a random, nameless thing attacking her body. It had a name now. And it was forever.
"You are positive for the antibodies, but there doesn't seem to be any organ involvement yet. Which is good. We can keep the disease under control with immunosuppressants. I know this isn't the news you wanted to hear, but you can live a pretty normal life with lupus."
No. There was nothing normal about what happened to her. It was pain beyond recognition. An assault on her fucking body, her spirit. She could have punched him in the face for even suggesting she could ever live a normal life with something like this.
But no one took the news harder than her father. How crushed he looked sitting there, as if he was somehow responsible for what happened to her. It broke her inside, made her feel weak. She wished she could be that little girl again, hanging a pillow in her closet, beating up a couple of chump girls.
"How normal?"
The doctor looked up from the stack of papers she assumed was her bloodwork results and raised a brow. "Excuse me?"
"How normal can I live with this?" She took in a deep breath to combat her nerves, her hands slipping within the front pocket of her hoodie. "What are the restrictions?"
He thought for a moment, his gaze focused downward. "Stay out of the sun. You will have to heavily monitor your drinking. I'd say avoid it for the most part if you can. The two medications I recommend can have adverse reactions to your liver if you drink too much—"
"Can I fight? Can I still fight?"
An uncomfortable silence filled the room, and she noticed every tiny, miniscule detail then. The brightness of the light above her head, how the paper she sat on crinkled as she adjusted her seated position. The apprehensive tapping of her father's foot. He was wearing black boots, scuffed at the toe. Perhaps he wanted to hear the answer as much as she did.
"Well," he began slowly, rubbing at his chin, "you are perfectly capable of exercising. And of course we recommend it. I would suggest hitting the water bag instead of a heavy bag to lessen the impact on your joints—"
"No." She said the word briskly, solemnly. Tears were stinging her eyes and clamping to the ends of her lashes. She had to blink several times to clear her vision.
"I'm not talking about exercise. Fighting. I'm a fighter. Please, tell me, can I still fight?"
He must have seen the desperation in her glare, the spitfire little girl held captive within her. Because his lips shifted about his face before he answered her, placing the clipboard onto the counter beside him.
"I'm not going to sit here and tell you I think it's the best idea," he said to her, "but many with these types of diseases have gone to pursue their passions such as yours. It's not impossible—"
"She's not fighting."
Annie snapped her neck towards the man seated quietly at the chair. His gaze focused to his lap, his expression hidden. And she felt a rage then take over her, her lips parting, fumes exhuming from her nose.
"What?"
And he shot a menacing gaze right back to her. "You're not fighting."
"You can't stop me."
"But I can." And he took a hesitant breath. "I will make sure through my connections that you'll never fight again."
And the words were like a knife plunged into her heart. By her very own fucking dad.
She watched him empty every bottle of liquor into the kitchen sink that night, and she wondered if it was from concern or lack of trust. Whatever it was, it pissed her the fuck off, how controlling he was. A double whammy of fucking bad news in one day. That she had an incurable disease and her father—who had been perfectly okay with watching her get kicked in the head before this—decided he was going to start caring about her. Why now? Why fucking now? When it felt like her life was falling apart? Why couldn't she be his little killer anymore? When did she become something so pathetic that even her dad was afraid for her wellbeing?
Because Annie wasn't afraid. She was young and stupid. Invincible. And she did everything she was supposed to do. Stayed out of the sun, stopped drinking, took her meds and faced all the side effects that came with them. But she wouldn't stop fighting. She wouldn't stop as long as her body was physically able to. And between flare-ups, she was herself—a goddamn monster.
It was random when she saw the flyer stapled to a tree. A sunny day with a cool breeze. It enveloped her, swirling around her body, as if divinely dragging her to that spot.
Underground all female MMA fights in the suburb of Paradis. Nobody her father knew. No one to stop her.
So she knew exactly where she was going to college in the fall.
And isn't it ironic...don't you think?
Mid November 1999, Paradis
She watched the way he wrapped her knees. It was very much unlike her method: swift, rough, the bandages uneven. She felt the gentle touch of his fingers caressing the naked flesh of her thigh, a stretch at the arch of her foot as her leg rested on his lap.
And she liked the attention he gave her, how careful he seemed to be with her. As if she were fragile, worth something. Twisting the bandage around her knee thoughtfully, evenly. Applying only a light pressure against her skin. Whenever she wrapped herself, she wanted to cut off circulation, to make sure she could feel nothing.
But she wanted to feel something when she was with him. To experience his touch, how warm and soft his hands felt handling her, gripping the swell of her thigh. How innocent and affectionate it was, yet she could feel the pulsing against her core, the pebbling of her nipples, gripping against the steel bars pierced through the tenderness. The way he licked his bottom lip as if in concentration, sweeping hair away from his face, the blue in his eyes flickering. A ring of purple skin circled his eye. The swelling had settled, and was now just a tender bruise. She frowned as she focused on it.
And when he finished, he grazed her bandaged knee, as if she would release her leg, but she kept it on his lap, kneading the fleshy part of her shin against his thigh. He looked at her leg a bit differently now.
"Did you really have to come here dressed like you're part of the cast of Home Improvement?"
His face contorted into something between a laugh and a smile, and she liked how the skin around his eyes crinkled, a dimple pressed into his chin. His mouth was such a soft shade of pink. And she gave him a knowing look when he smoothed his palm against the front of her thigh. Skin on skin, her heat absorbing his. An involuntary twitch jerked at her quad, and she felt his finger curl, pressing dents into her flesh.
"You must be cold," he mused in return, probably referring to how visibly solid her nipples were beneath her sports bra. Annie shifted her leg, feeling the fabric of his jeans rub at her skin. She felt practically naked in her top and shorts, which unlike her muay thai ones, were tight and pressed into her groin, hugging her derriere.
"I like being cold," she shot back, an unreadable expression claiming her face. They sat in two separate folding chairs pushed close against each other. In a room stacked full of similar chairs and dust. The light that filled the vicinity was dull and orangey. It enhanced the color of her hair, how lambent it shone against her face, as if her tresses were a halo.
"You know, wrapping your knees like this is scientifically unnecessary," Armin said to her, a slope to his brows as he coiled his hand around her ankle. "It isn't doing anything to stop a potential flare up. You're just restricting blood flow."
"Blow jobs aren't scientifically necessary either," she shot back, a grimace adhering to her face. She dug the heel of her foot into his thigh and he squirmed. "Maybe I should stop doing those too."
She felt satisfied when she saw a blush ravage his cheeks, his palm sliding up the front of her shin. But he smiled, sheepishly, the way she liked. With those eyes that pulled her out of every bad mood, supple lips curving sweetly. Annie leaned back against the chair, throwing her arms behind the backrest.
When she took in a concentrated breath, she could smell his cologne. Light, almost sweet. She liked it better inhaling the scent with her face against his neck. And though they fucked often, there was always some kind of tension between them. His fingers slipped underneath her shorts so slightly it was almost as if he hadn't. Bending her knee, she pushed her leg against his chest.
"Are you excited?" His palm cupped the top of her knee. "Nervous?"
"I'm indifferent." Pulling at her two low pigtails, she pushed the hair ties tighter against her scalp. "As long as I get to eat an entire pizza after, I'm good."
His look towards her was sweet yet peculiar, a slight pull of his brows. "Then why do it? Why fight like this?"
Usually, she would have been annoying by such a question, especially coming from his concern. She'd want to punch that gentle and caring look off his face. But he was doing it again without even knowing it, taking her bad mood, sucking it right out of her body. A very light sigh brushed her nostrils, and she seemed to look past him then.
"Because whenever I'm not fighting, I want to fucking die. It's the only time I feel alive." His face scrunched, and she shrugged it off. "I'm being dramatic. Relax."
Armin was hugging her leg now, resting his chin on her knee. And it felt weird, sitting there next to him, sharing such a dark, vulnerable part of her. She wondered if it scared him, how much she connected her worth and happiness to these stupid and probably illegal fights that only happened a few times a year. She would obsess over them, feeling like she'd spend all her time waiting. But the last few weeks, she didn't feel like she was sitting there waiting anymore.
Because lately her days consisted of kissing and holding hands and feeling his body mold against her. Words of pining and affection caressing her ears like a nauseating yet moving sonnet. Fucking in his room, hers, his car, every erogenous zone touched and savored like candy. It was nice not to spend her time just waiting, to feel alive in such a different way.
"You know, the more I care about you, the less I can support this," he admitted, his voice low. She saw the confliction in his gaze, and it felt like someone was pulling at her heart.
He didn't expect when she quietly replied, "Then keep caring about me more."
Annie still had dreams of watching her dad fight in the ring. The shine of his gloves, the spark that ignited in his eyes. How she wanted to be just like him, a fighter. A muay thai kickboxer. Why did he want to take that dream away from her? For three years she managed to compete in these dirty fights. He was oblivious to it. She would have been much safer in the official realm of kickboxing. Safer, more successful. Happier.
"It'll be nice to see you doing what you love, though," he added, as if to lighten the mood. Her lips pursed as she gave him a sultry look.
"I'll definitely be doing something I love later." When she saw his lips fumble about his face, her body stiffened. She hadn't realized the double connotation of her statement until she heard herself say it out loud.
"It was a sex joke. Don't read too much into it," she added, a flush to her face. She saw him smile then, almost teasingly, and her lips furled downwards as she straightened her back and leaned towards him.
"It would be fucking psychotic if I said that now, so soon." And he nodded, humoring her, that same stupid, taunting smile lacing his mouth as he traced the bandage on her knee.
"I agree," he replied with an amused huff. It made her angry and flustered, her whole body warm and red. Yet, when her gaze interlocked with his, she felt this strange feeling overtake her. It was foreign, new. Something she had never felt before. A gushy sensation is her chest, a simultaneous lightness and heaviness. Her expression softened, and she felt herself shrink in her seat.
"But…" she said quietly, "I am pretty crazy."
His smile softened, a different kind of look in his eyes as they stared quietly for a moment. She almost expected him to burst into a poem, confessing his love for her in his clingy, smitten Armin fashion. But he didn't say anything. Instead, she felt him press into her inner thigh, his fingers delving in her skin tenderly before he leaned forward.
The graze of his nose touching hers, his breath gentle and hitting her face as a warm mist. Blue melding with blue, a falter to her heartbeat. Fingers burrowing into her flesh. It hurt so good. She closed her eyes when he kissed her, feeling the delicate pull of his mouth, the way his lips moved along her own, warm and wet and dripping with something so sweet that she swiped her tongue to taste it.
When her palms clamped his neck, he was hot to the touch, and she shuddered, deepening the contact, feeling the swerve of his mouth as she trapped his bottom lip between her teeth and tugged softly before swallowing it, kissing his lip repeatedly, relishing in the feel of his supple skin.
She yelped when he grabbed her and yanked her onto his lap, her thighs straddling him. And he was smothering kisses all over her face now, holding her in a compact, unescapable hug. She tried to conceal her laughter through irritated grunts, yet an undeniable smile crossed her lips.
"Gross, quit it!"
She felt the curve of his mouth as he planted swift wet pecks against her nose and jaw. "I have to now, before you get all bloody and sweaty."
Annie grabbed his face to stop him, her thumbs digging into his cheek bones, and she claimed his lips with her own, her kisses short, staccato, kissing him repeatedly, quickly. Heatedly. Until her back arched involuntarily, her pelvis grinding against him. She could feel the extent of his arousal, how hard he felt pressed at her core.
Their kisses became vulgar, her tongue slipping inside his mouth, searching desperately until it became entangled with his. She felt the friction from the bulge of his jeans, and she rubbed herself on him enthusiastically.
She finally allowed herself to breathe when he separated from her mouth and kissed down her neck, taking the inhalation as a sharp gasp. She could feel the trail of his mouth, the trek of his tongue, like wet fire along her skin. And his hands were gripping at her waist, fingers pressing almost painfully into her skin, while she kept kneading herself om his groin, warmth gushing into the lowest part of her belly.
As he lifted her sports bra to expose her breasts, she felt the cool, dry air of the room tickle her nipples, and she pawed at his back, shoving her fingers into his shoulder blades.
When he squeezed her breast and clamped his mouth around her nipple, she groaned. In pleasure, in irritation. "God, you're so fucking distracting."
She felt his tongue play with her piercing before he let go with a soft pop. "Should I stop?"
"Fuck no."
And she threw her head back when he sucked on the tip of her breast again, sensual wet sounds evading his mouth, his tongue circling her as he tasted her, while his hand found the neglected one and his thumb kneaded at her nipple, twisting her jewelry. She felt the sharpness travel down between her thighs. A budding warmth at the center of her body, her breasts, drool dribbling down her chin from the pure satisfaction.
Her lungs filled with dust, his scent, her own gasps and moans. And everything collided when she came on his lap, a violent jerk to her hips as she rubbed against his jeans. He clutched her breast, mouth pinching her nipple and tugging at the metal rod. Hot air shot from his nostrils, embracing her skin.
Her orgasm was chaotic, intense, and she took his face to kiss him, gliding her mouth along his, kissing him in a way that was more intimate, sensual, the shudders of her climax engulfing her body. Even when it was over, and only a lingering pulse, she still kissed him, until she opened her eyes, finding his, frowning again when she saw the bruised ringlet of skin.
She didn't realize how heavily she was breathing, exhaling in short bursts from her mouth, her breaths merging with his. And seeing him sitting there, looking so flustered and flushed, the part of his swollen lips, the haziness of his eyes…She climbed off of his lap then, feeling the ace bandages constrict her knees while she knelt before him between his legs.
It was cute how disorientated he became as she unzipped his jeans, his back straightening as redness cloaked his face. "W—What are you doing?"
"Something scientifically unnecessary."
~oOo~
Mikasa thought she looked out of place, but no one did so more than Sasha.
Her roommate huddled against her, clasping onto her arm as if she were legitimately afraid. Mikasa saw her eyes shift around the room, from the multitude of grubby men surrounding them, to the chairs placed haphazardly in unorganized rows. All kinds of men, older, younger. Leather jackets, multiple streams of cigarette smoke forming clouds in the air. It was dark in there, a bluish tint encompassing their surroundings.
When Mikasa took off her jacket and went to place it on her chair, Sasha grabbed her arm with a panic.
Her butterfly clips shimmered in a straight line on top of her head, hair pulled back to showcase the zigzag part at the center of her scalp. Silvery eyeshadow sparkled on her lids, while she batted her lashes rapidly, her hand clamping against Mikasa's wrist.
"Don't!" she pleaded, shaking her head vigorously. "Don't put that there! There's probably hepatitis and cocaine on there!"
Mikasa gave her a strange look, her eyes scrunching as she glared at her peculiarly, holding the jacket in her grasp. The both of them turned suddenly when they heard an obnoxious laugh beside them.
Pieck stood, burning cigarette balanced against her fingers. Hair tangled, black circles under her eyes. Yet instead of her usual Catholic uniform, she wore dark overalls, one of the straps undone and hanging messily. She had nothing but a black bra underneath.
"That's fucking stupid," she mused, taking a sharp whiff of smoke. "Why would there be free cocaine?"
Mikasa would have sighed, but she didn't want to breathe in anymore smoke. So she kept her breaths restricted, calculated. There was more smog in there than actual oxygen. She put her coat on the chair anyway. She could wash the hepatitis off later.
"When Armin said Annie was going to fight, I was thinking it'd be a little less…" She glanced at her surroundings uncomfortably, kneading her scalp. "…Shady?"
"There is a literal cage here, Mikasa," Sasha quipped, and both their eyes focused on the enclosure at the front of the room. "I thought there was supposed to be a ring? And snacks? There's no snacks here, Mikasa. And everybody's molesting me with their eyes."
Sasha hugged herself, refusing to remove her jacket. It was hot pink and only made her stand out even more. Her feet fidgeted in her sparkly jelly flats.
Mikasa never thought the day Armin got a girlfriend, it would mean they'd all be dragged to an underground fight in support of her. She had envisioned a bookfair, a trip to the museum. Maybe a concert, like smooth jazz. Definitely not something the cops could bust at any moment. They were the most bizarre mismatched pair she had ever seen. But somehow they just worked.
And after her hiccup resulted in Armin getting a black eye, she needed to support him like he always supported her.
The venue was loud, noisy, so fucking dark. She barely made out Reiner and Bertolt, despite how freakishly tall they were. It was probably because neither of them was twisting tongues with Pieck. But they hovered around her like drooling dogs. How did this chick get so many guys to grovel after her? And not even care that they were one of many?
But she decided it wasn't the worst thing in the world. Hanging out with these people she had formerly decided she hated. They were…interesting. Fun, even. This was an adventure sort of, right? One they all could recall fondly one day.
"Where is Armin, anyway?" she wondered out loud, attempting to scan the room to find him. Pieck's cigarette smoke seemed to purposely flow towards her.
"Ten bucks they're fucking as we speak."
Mikasa frowned. Armin had way too much class and self-respect to do something like that. But then she remembered where they were. Nothing surprised her anymore.
"Mikasa."
She snapped her neck at the familiar voice, and her heart dropped, eyes consumed nearly half her face as she forgot how to speak. Sasha stood as an obstacle between them, and she thanked god she was there.
"J—Jean," she managed to let out, shuffling nervously as she stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans. Sasha looked between them with narrowed eyes, her arms folding across her chest suspiciously as she clutched at her purse.
She saw the way he looked at her. His expression neutral, but longing lingering in his eyes. They seemed to bleed with his yearning for her, unspoken words spilling between them. It made the guilt well up inside her. It felt so horrible that she wanted to throw up.
He briefly eyed her up and down, taking in her form, her outfit. It wasn't anything special. What does one wear to a fight? Stonewash jeans clinging to her hip bones, a plain black crop top, and her reliable Skechers. Her hair sat mostly undone, framing her face, fringe falling in front of her eyes. Dark crimson lipstick embellished her mouth, her lashes thick and curled.
"How, how are you?" he asked her a bit awkwardly, scratching at the line of scruff at his jaw. He seemed more properly dressed, in a brown leather jacket, his hair slicked back. She faltered at the question, as if he had asked her to marry him. It was hard to keep his gaze. The guilt was heavy, burdensome.
"I'm alright," she answered timidly, looking around as if she were trying to locate something. She noticed his face lacked any bruising. Eren must have not found him yet.
"I tried calling you a couple times."
Mikasa shut her eyes closed, a huge sigh fleeing her nostrils, and she ran her fingers through her hair, rubbing at her temples. She had no idea what to say to him, hadn't prepared an easy way to let him down. She felt like such a horrible fucking person.
"I've just been really busy…"
Sasha interrupted, groaning dramatically. "This is so fucking weird with me standing between you two." She shuffled past them, towards the large fog of smoke. "I'm gonna go next to my new best friend Pieck."
And now there was no obstacle, no excuse or distraction. They stood alongside each other, face to face, his gaze capturing her and unrelenting. Reminding her of his feelings, his pining. Also the way that he touched her, how different it was. Nice, but different. It wasn't the touch that she wanted. How could she tell him that? How could she just say that to him?
A flash of a memory. His face buried in the crook of her neck, his breath a hot mist against her skin. The curve of his arms, his palm grappling her breast—
Her heart was in her throat and she couldn't breathe. She winced, snapping her stare away from him. And she embraced herself protectively, in disgrace. In her shame. It was impossible to look at him without thinking about what happened.
He sensed her discomfort, but not in the way that stopped him from touching her shoulder. "Hey, are you okay?"
She flinched as if she had been caressed by a deadly flame. He felt it, pulling his hand away from her. Relief flooded her chest when she saw Armin approach them.
He looked…disarranged? He was starry eyed, half of his plaid shirt tucked into his jeans, his hair kind of ruffled. When she saw the giant bruise on his face, even more guilt consumed her, that she met him half way and took him in a very big, mortified hug.
"Armin, oh my god. I'm so sorry, honey," she gushed, nearly bursting into tears on his shoulder. She was shaking against him now, and she could feel him gently return her embrace. She had seen him immediately after it happened. But now that the bruise settled, she could really see the magnitude of the injury. Less swollen, but dark, almost black against his skin. "I'm so sorry he did that to you. It's all my fucking fault."
She felt the vibration of his chuckle against her ear, and when they parted, she found it odd that he was smiling. "Don't worry about it. Annie took care of it."
Unable to stop the frown that pursed her lips, she replied, "How bad?"
"He'll live."
When she lightly pressed her fingers on the battered skin, he stiffened slightly, and Mikasa raised a brow at him. "You look really happy for a guy who got decked in the face a couple of days ago."
And there it was, that stupid, goofy smile of his she almost expected would reappear. How it consumed his face, pressing pleased dimples near his chin and mouth. The dreamy glassiness in his eyes told her everything she needed to know. Smacking her hand against her forehead, she pulled away from him, an elongated groan heaving her throat. She owed Pieck ten dollars.
"Armin, what the hell, zip up your pants," Sasha hollered when she noticed him. She now also had a cigarette balanced between her teeth, smoking from it expertly. Then Reiner and Bertolt shouted elated roars, applauding his name almost in unison as they grabbed him and pulled them into their little group. She lost him in the fog of smoke.
And it was her and Jean again, left together in the uncomfortable stillness. She peered up at him timidly.
"I…Did Eren…?" Mikasa didn't know how to address it, because it was shameful how disappointed she felt that he hadn't faced the same wrath as Armin. He knew Jean was the one, and he fucking hated him. There were many moments when they were together where he would just gripe about how much they disliked each other. So why hadn't he done anything when he found out? Why was Jean still walking around unscathed? Did he give up on her? So disgusted by what she had done that seeking revenge wasn't even worth it?
It was over. She knew it was over. But every thing that reminded her of it hurt like fucking hell.
"I haven't seen him around," he confirmed, his thumb stroking his chin. "But we also kind of have a tiny body guard hanging around us now. We're all here for her, right?"
She smiled, or at least, she tried. It was difficult, all these conflicting emotions shoving themselves inside of her, screaming and begging to be felt, to be heard. She couldn't focus on one, her mind a disheveled mess of wants and feelings, pain and confusion.
"Jean, listen, I—"
"Can we talk?"
His voice was a bit hushed, and she struggled to hear him against the commotion. But it almost felt like just the two of them then, that no one or nothing else surrounded them. When he grabbed her wrist, she felt the graze of his thumb, his grip solid yet delicate. Tears gathered in her eyes, but they remained enclosed within. All she could do was nod, as if in defeat, unable to run away from her actions any longer.
"Is tomorrow okay?" he added. She swallowed the dryness in her throat unsuccessfully.
"Tomorrow is fine."
A loud ding of a bell impeded the moment, and Mikasa could finally release the painful breath she had been holding.
An unseen announcer shouted from the speakers, and the rowdy crowd cheered. Mikasa winced from the noise, placing a palm against her ear. The fight was finally about to start.
"Holy shit," Sasha exclaimed, tapping ashes from her cigarette as a baffled expression took her face. Her eyeshadow shimmered brilliantly, reaching all the way up to the arches of her brows. "Annie is hot."
Mikasa never would have expected such a body to exist beneath all the baggy clothes she wore. She looked cute, yet dynamic. Like a stick of dynamite. Her hair shone vibrantly in the bluish lighting, her skin milky and pale. She didn't wear traditional gloves, only something much smaller that didn't cover her fingers. As she watched her step into the cage, it made her nervous.
Her challenger was taller than her, noticeably so. Long brown hair tied back into a ponytail, dressed in a similar fashion. They were introduced without their real names.
Calamity for the fiery brunette. Annie as the Short Fuse.
~oOo~
She had the upper hand. At least, she tried to convince herself.
Calamity was a boxer. Annie knew how to use her entire body to fight. No restrictions. She would win this one easily. Her kicks were her greatest strength, and one punt to the face was all she needed for her victory.
It was loud in there, so fucking noisy that it bothered her. It wasn't anything new. But such a different feeling versus the more reserved moment she had just shared with Armin. The shouting was pounding against her head. Suddenly she couldn't wait for this shit to be over.
Annie could feel the wraps around her knees, how they sunk into her skin, squeezing her joints. It was good, secure. As if nothing could hurt her. She tried to find Armin in the crowd, but it was difficult to see. The mouthguard felt weighted against her teeth, and she bit down onto the rubber surface, sucking it in.
Calamity had a spark in her eyes that reminded her of herself. Young, angry, aggressive. The way she would spar at her father's gym, taking down anyone who contested her. Always so bitter, resentful. Even before she got sick. And she felt like that angry little girl then, when their fight began. Forced from her home, furious at the world. She tried to imagine her as one of those little bitches she fucked up when she was seven years old. But it was hard to focus. She just kept thinking, repeatedly, the same thought ringing in her ears and yelling at her to listen:
What the fuck was she doing there?
Why was she here? What was the point? Why was having a bunch of perverts watching her fight so important to her? This was never what she wanted. With the headphones snug at her ears, listening to her favorite songs as if it were a soundtrack. Watching her dad, how he shined in that ring. Not put in some fucking cage like an animal. She wanted to be just like him, wanted it so bad she would do anything to feel something remotely close to that release.
Calamity had different footwork, something she was not used to. And she used it to get out of Annie's kicking range. Unlike her more upright position, Calamity settled into a squat, but it didn't matter. She was taller than her and well within range to knock her out.
Her jabs were teases, distracting her from the real nasty blows she kept trying to throw towards Annie. Why was it so hard to fucking kick this girl? Every time she would get close enough, she'd maneuver herself away. Several minutes into the fight and no one had gotten hit yet beyond a superficial punch.
When Annie cornered her, she hurled her back leg forward, but Calamity blocked it with her arm. She was taken aback when she sucker-punched her in the face, shoving Annie against the cage. When she saw her twist her fist into an uppercut aimed at her stomach, she panicked, lifting her knee and extended her leg into a swift push kick. The swarms of screaming that followed from the audience was muffled to her, as if she were in a daze.
Sweat dripped down her body, cooling her heated flesh. Her heart was stammering against her ribs that she could feel the vibration in her ears. Calamity was so close now that she could finally try to land a hit. Just like her dad taught her.
Jab jab, cross. Cross, hook, cross. Hook, cross, hook, roundhouse. Roundhouse. Fucking roundhouse. A front kick to catch her off guard. It wasn't working. She was too quick on her feet. Annie had gotten closer than she should have, confident she could land the hit. But it allowed her room to get pummeled instead.
When she felt the blow of the cross against her face, the feeling of her knuckles slamming into her chin and nose, sending her head back and body shoved against the cage—Annie was stunned, her vision blurred. Calamity bent her elbow, her first twisting as she crammed a hook into Annie's cheek. She bit down onto the mouthpiece, a gasp concealed in her throat.
Cheering sang in unison with the booing. A swarm of sounds and colors and goddamn thoughts. Another push kick saved her from the impending thrashing.
Annie felt the blood dripping down her lip, her nostrils. It was thick, viscous. Crimson. She wiped at it with her forearm, smearing it across her face. Why was she here? Why the fuck was she here? Three years ago, she wore her new muay thai shorts only once. She collapsed before she could even fight in them. She wanted to wear them again, kick another fighter right in the crotch. Have her fight song playing for her as she won.
My girl wants to party all the time, party all the time, party all the time.
A little girl defending herself, trying to learn English. She listened to the radio as a means of escape. An eighties dance song debuted and she recorded it on her boombox. She danced to it in her Care Bears nightgown. She wasn't good at dancing. But it didn't matter. The music mattered, how she felt in her own body as she moved to the beat wildly.
The same little girl who hung a pillow in her closet, practicing her kicks and punches, headphones taut on her head, listening to that same banging song.
My girl wants to party all the time, party all the time, party all the time.
And somehow, she could hear it now, the melody and rhythm pulsing against her ears. It made her become that little girl again, so eager, yet so angry. Because life fucking sucked. But now she knew that things could be better. She didn't have to spend all her time waiting for sleazy fights anymore. She could find peace and happiness in the quiet moments. In kisses, holding hands. Talking about her uneventful day.
My girl wants to party all the time, party all the time, party all the time. She parties all the time.
Annie stopped kicking and stooped to her own level. But even then, Calamity never would have seen her next move coming. When Annie hopped from the ground, winding up her arm before she threw a superman punch straight into the center of her face.
~oOo~
"Yes, Annie! Goooo! Fuck her up! Fuck her up!"
Sasha had gotten really into the fight, a fresh cigarette burning in her mouth as she pumped an energetic fist. She was screaming louder than anyone else in the venue, nearly losing her voice. But it didn't stop her from chanting her frantic shouts of encouragement.
She stopped when Pieck grabbed her wrist, pulling down her arm. "Shit, calm the fuck down. This isn't a fight to the death." And a beat passed as they all witnessed the superman punch, and Pieck cupped her hands by her mouth like a megaphone, releasing a thick, tantalizing screech.
"Kill her, Annie! Dig her fucking grave!"
The moment he saw his girlfriend get socked in the face and the blood that seeped from her nose and mouth, Armin had to be physically restrained by Reiner and Bertolt to keep from running to the cage himself and stopping the fight. It was fucking awful watching Annie get hurt. He couldn't stand it. He was freaking out, his body jittery and panicking.
Reiner shoved him under his arm, keeping him steady. "Trust me, she does not want you getting in the fucking way. You have to let her do this. God knows how many times we've tried to stop her."
"Besides," Bertolt interjected, ruffling Armin's hair. "Looks like she won."
And his attention was dragged back to the cage, catching just as Annie landed the final blow on Calamity, sprawled on the mat and unmoving.
And the winner is the Short Fuse!
It was barbaric how the crowd celebrated her victory, and he observed how she stumbled out of the confinement, blood dragged over her face and arm. Some that didn't belong to her even speckled on her glove. And without hesitation, Armin pulled himself from Reiner, scuffling against the manic horde of spectators as he sprinted towards the cage until he found her and picked her up in an embrace.
Her knees locked at his hips, legs raveling and arms draped around his neck. She looked so tired and dizzy, but kept a straight face for him, spitting her mouthpiece onto the ground.
When he kissed her, he could taste the coppery flavor of blood leak from her mouth. It was warm and bitter, but he kissed her again anyway, feeling the fluid douse his chin. It was slippery holding her from how absolutely sweaty she was.
"Shit—baby, are you okay?"
She didn't answer him immediately, her cheek pressed onto his shoulder. "Sorry, I was trying to decide if I like you calling me baby. I'll allow it." A beat passed. "I'm fine. I fucking won, didn't I?"
There was a slur to her words and it bothered him. His fingers dug into the skin, gripping at the bottom of her thighs. It was almost like a dream how the applause engulfed them like a muffled echo. "That was fucking terrifying watching you get hurt like that. I never want to see that again."
He felt her hum vibrate in her neck. "You won't have to. At least not like this." He was surprised when she kissed him again, their skin sticking together from her blood. "I have some other plans." She seemed confident and pleased in her response, even though he had no idea what the hell she was talking about.
Soon they were swarmed by everyone, rejoicing in her victory. What was most noteworthy was that Sasha hugged her, and immediately afterwards Annie flung herself into Mikasa's arms. It took her by surprise, that she stood there a bit dumbfounded for a moment before returning the embrace. A gesture similar to when they had first met, but more sincere this time.
There was something different about Annie. The fight had done something to her. It was like seeing a different version of herself, and he was glad for the huge support system she had, that had integrated into his own.