Her apartment had a stale, unused feeling to it, something which was accented by the yellowed wallpaper and the thin walls. Somewhere off to her left, the faucet in the sink dripped continuously, creating an eerie puncture to the silence. Usually, there was a wet, rasping snore from her boyfriend, a wiry man named Jordan who preferred putting black eyes on her face to finding a job. But today, he must be out drinking – no doubt he would stumble home, drunk and belligerent, and for that she had to prepare. Dropping her backpack to the floor, she hurried over to the tiny kitchenette, marked with such a title only because there was a rusty white mini fridge and a dented sink slapped next to each other. Opening the fridge, she saw three boxes of old takeout and a six-pack of chilled beer – perfect. Her movements were, for once, unhurried and efficient, nothing like the usual stuttering, rapid movements she had. Scrambling to her feet, she hurried down the short hallway, slapping at the light switch as she passed, and went to the bathroom. Carefully, carefully, carefully, she took all the razors, the pills, everything but the toothpaste and the mouthwash. Anything which could be used as a weapon. Then again, Jordan didn't really need a weapon, his shouting was enough.

The TV had to be on – channel five, local news, nothing else or he would throw a fit. She put the remote in a visible place on the coffee table, so he wouldn't be mad and try to tear the place apart looking for it. After these few things were done, she went to their shared bedroom, digging through the cheap particleboard dresser which held a rumpled assortment of wrinkled clothes, all in varying stages of filth. Pulling her shirt over her head, she sniffed it gingerly, then folded it, putting it neatly in the drawer. Her uniform had cost twenty five dollars, too much to be treated poorly, and it didn't even fit. The black pants were given the same treatment, and she swiped her hands over her body briskly, dispelling the goose bumps. Inadvertently, she caught a glimpse of her back legs in the mirror behind her as she turned to grab a tee shirt.

As if magnetized, she turned fully and examined herself in the mirror, brown eyes deadening slightly as she took in her reflection. She was thin – they couldn't afford enough food on the one income, and the drugs to keep her ADHD under control had been experimental and didn't work in the slightest. It had only forced her to lose twenty five pounds, twenty five pounds she couldn't afford to lose because she was already so small, and made her hyperactivity worse. But the thin, birdlike bones and lack of muscle weren't what drew her eye – it was the finally healing bruises darkening her lower abdomen and left hipbone. Jordan wasn't forgiving in his beatings. He never had been.

Shaking her head, she turned away from the mirror, swallowing, trying to focus – a difficult task, for her. Kelly snatched a few clothes at random and threw them on, tugging them over her head. Jordan didn't like coming home and seeing her in her uniform. She loved him, she did – and he loved her. She was sure of it. He told her, almost every day. But their life was hard, she told herself, and their strained finances made it difficult to live together. He had a temper, she knew that when she got involved with him, she just didn't know it was the physical kind. But a little love was better than none at all. Their debt was big, and a rude little letter from the bank informing them that they were two months behind on their loan payment got her thinking about training again.

Three years ago, she had been nineteen, fresh and invigorated, ready to do battle. She had been a champion, ready to embark on her track career. She had been fit, and now Kelly looked in the mirror and saw an old, thin woman aged far beyond her young years. It was hard, struggling to survive in poverty, but she had ditched it all, along with her running career. Her last race had ended sourly for her, causing her to tear her ACL band and spend a few weeks in therapy. That was right in the middle of her downward spiral – the parties were wild, the beer was free, and the drugs were exhilarating. Losing the race, to a young newbie no less, had demolished her faltering career. Nothing was worth getting back in the game, she promised herself when she was in rehab drying out. Nothing. I will never go back to racing. It's behind me.

And here she was, blackmailing a trainer into coaching her. Not even a running coach – she was trying to become a fighter. Oh, please.

She scrubbed a hand through her hair and began shifting her weight, dancing impatiently, never staying still for long. Fighting was something she could do – her father had been a trainer, told her that she had the structure for it. The running world was closed to her – she had too many ghosts, too many skeletons in the closet. But she remembered the raw, primal matches she had witnessed as a child, watched the down-and-dirty parking lot brawls between burly construction workers. She remembered it all, and wanted it. Doing the research hadn't taken much – looking up titles, championship matches, but most importantly, winnings. And she saw that one match a week could pay for their bills, with her waitressing job giving them luxury money.

It had sounded so good in her head. And then her father had gotten sick, and everything had been thrown up in the air. Jordan hadn't been very supportive, but he was bad with emotions. So she had gone to see her father in the hospital, who was too sick to notice her black eye anyway, and heard about Tom Conlon. The Miracle Man. Seeing him in the octagon, seeing him pummel his own brother, had been what she was looking for. She wanted power like that – wanted the ability to beat and kick and punch somebody senseless. It would help. Sports had always helped her. And the brutal, punishing style of Tommy's fighting had entranced her, enthralled her, gotten her to the point of screaming and punching the air. She needed the feel the throb of an excited crowd again, needed to taste the adrenaline.

The front door slammed, and Kelly just about jumped out of her skin.

"Kelly?"

She cringed.

"I know you're home! Kelly!" He bellowed, the door kicked shut behind him. Go out and see him, don't hide, he hates it when you hide, she panted internally. Fear rose up, hot and cloying, in her mouth, and she moved into his line of vision. In a moment, she felt the floor shake as he crossed the room in a bound, felt his iron hands grip her arms, her head hitting the wall as he smashed her against it. "What the fuck do you mean, you're gonna be a fighter, huh?" He shouted at her, spittle flying from his mouth.

"Jordan, please, jus' listen 't me," Kelly pleaded, every muscle quivering taut. Shame and an overwhelming fear rose up in her - don't shout, the neighbors will hear, get away, don't hit me – and then she lowered her eyes.

"I go down to the bar, and what do I hear? Some little shit is gettin' trained by some meathead over in the gym?" He snarled. "Huh? You know anything about that?"

"It'll help pay th' bills," Kelly whispered, under her breath. "And I c'n fight, my Da said I was built for it, maybe, so's I thought I could –"

"You thought, you thought!" Jordan roared. "Did I say you could think? Huh? Did I?"

She cowered, fighting the tears, breath hitching in her throat as he gave her a little shake for emphasis. "I c'n make five hundred dollars, Jordan, please, just gimmie a chance, I c'n do it!" Kelly begged. "I was gonna tell you, honest, I jus' didn't have time, 'n then I couldn't –"

He smacked her, hard, across the face, and she shut up, going limp in his grasp.

"Don't you ever –" He growled, pushing her harder into the wall, "- ever, go behind my back again, you got me?"

She shivered against the wall, fingers curling against the aged wallpaper as he withdrew. Kept her head down. "I gotcha," She whispered.

He went to the television, sat down on the couch, still scowling as he untied his sneakers. Jordan was a handsome man – thin, wiry, but with dark hair which he fussed over and intense blue eyes. He wasn't sweet, or romantic, but he was passionate. She had admired his passion at one point, loved his tempered fire. But now, still cringing against the wall, cheek stinging, she tried to remember what she had done to make him fall out of love with her. No, that wasn't right – they were in love. It was just the way things were. He watched the TV with a frown on his face, and then she licked up the nerve, scrapped up the courage as if she were a soaked kitten.

"C'n I still fight?"

"No." The word was sharp, final, demanding.

She creaked down the hall, and went to the bathroom, slowly thumbing the cheap lock behind her. The tears came in the dark silence, and she felt her small shoulders buckle forward as she slid down the door, huddling on the ground, wet and alone. No fighting. She could train, she knew she could – it was like when she ran. Kelly knew she was a good runner. There were moments when a talent was revealed, and she knew she could be good at martial arts if Jordan would just give her a chance. But would he leave her? Would he leave her if she went behind his back still, even after what had just happened? No, he wouldn't leave her, she decided – he would kill her. Just keep pounding and pounding until she stopped moving, stopped fighting, stopping screaming. She could see it, almost as though it were a movie playing out before her.

Kelly had plenty of things in her emotional supply, but courage was not one of them. She was a determined woman, and most people would say she was aggressive when she was around them, but she always turned to limp, pathetic mush around Jordan. She had no stamina around him. Burying her face in her arms, she took a shaky sob, tilted her head back, leaned it against the door. No courage. No stamina. What was wrong with her? She had to find out. She would find out if she was any good at a fighter – one or two sessions, see if she could pick it up, and then that would be it. If she wasn't good at it, she'd do something else. If she was ... Kelly pushed the thought away and instead concentrated on composing herself. One session – maybe two.

And for the first time in her life, Kelly Martin got a taste of courage.

A/N: My muse is raring to go on this story! Please tell me what you think, I love all the reviews I'm getting for this story! Usually I have to get some attention before I get any reviews, like offer to give out plushies or something. Anyway, PLEASE, make my day – my week, actually – and review. Please?

I made a little banner for the story - check it out here: h t t p : / / p a r a d o x e n i g m a . d e v i a n t a r t . c o m / # / d 4 q v 7 i n