Dating : Knock Out

When you’re about to be hit, you notice some odd details, like that the gloves were a worn red that toned with the owners gum-shield. It looked a bit like a bloody grin to you, except for the fact their expression was nothing close to cheery. No smile, not a hint of amusement. Just sheer concentration and determination to beat you. Noticing all these little things was pointless when the glove connected with your jaw and your head jerked back, your balance lost, and you’ve staggered into the rope side of the ring.

The ref intervened before they hit you and again and you try to convey thanks with your blackening eyes. The right one has started to swell and now it’s like you’re constantly squinting. As if seeing with the protective head gear wasn’t hard enough. The bell rings and you’re on your little stool. Your head droops and cold water hits you square in the face, hadn’t you been hit enough already? The coach is screaming in your ear, “Cop on,” “Shape up,” “You’re being destroyed!”

You nod your head, try to act like you still care, like you don’t know you’ve already screwed everything up. But you know everyone’s watching the best of the town off to the city to fight. You regret leaving, it was better being the best of a small bunch rather than being tossed around like a rag doll by someone who’s fought for their name, who earned the title of the best. You’re nothing but a fraud trying to stay standing for one more round, just the one.

They’re in front of you all in red and full of fire. You wish you’d had the red, but you were left with blue. From even before the match started things weren’t going your way. That was the problem wasn’t it? Things had always been easy until now, until you understood what a proper competitor was. You started fighting just to pass the time, to show off and look cool. Your punch goes wide, or did they dodge? You can’t even tell. They throw a hook and they don’t miss. But it’s not so bad, you take it on board and try your best to hide your exhaustion. But they know, they know you’re running on fumes. The sweats pouring from you and the only thing red about you is your face. You can see the way they smirk. No longer wary and still springing on light legs to show you what real stamina is.

Screw them. You just need to land one hit. One knockout and the rest of the match won’t matter.

Everyone from home is screaming your name, trying to cheer you on, you can’t let them all down. But the other side’s cheers are louder, a group who knows they’ve backed the winner. But that’s not enough of a reason to give up. Not yet.

You throw your right cross with everything you have left. You’ve done it a hundred, a thousand times before and it packs a lot of power from all that practice. Your best, most polished hit.

But they knew you were going to do that. Their glove collides under your chin. The last thing you see is the lights shining down from above as you hit the floor and the crowd going wild for the red side, their roars the last thing you hear until you embrace the knock out.