Chapter Text
Round one…
CRRSH
Thirty seconds…
CHRSH
I'm not weak, not slow, I can take pain well…
CRSHH
But I just keep losing.
CSRHH
What am I doing wrong?
CHRSHH CRHSH CHRSHH
I place a hand on the punching bag to stop it from swinging, taking quick breaths as sweat drips from my head. It's not from lack of trying, is it? I don't feel any stronger than I was a few months ago, not like I would know; I had to cancel my gym membership after my rent increased.
Stupid paraplegic old man, I'll make you wish you died in that war.
… I shouldn't think things like that.
CCHRSH
I let out a huff, letting the bag swing as I pace around the room, mumbling angrily under my breath as I go from wall to wall. I catch a glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand, it reads 2:15 AM.
People are trying to sleep, I'm such an asshole.
I hadn't realized it was so late, I wasn't anywhere near tired yet – I was so energized for today's fight; but then I went and lost before using any of it. I took my pacing to the living room, trying to find something to do with my arms: crossing them, placing them on my sides, in my pockets. I couldn't stop thinking, stop moving, I just wanted to hit something.
I shouldn't, I'm not a violent person.
Yes I am, I'm a violent, destructive animal.
That's not true, I'm a good person, it's just my instincts.
Violent instincts, it doesn't matter how much I try, I'm still the same wannabe brawler.
…
… I couldn't spend the entire weekend like this… I need a distraction.
I thought about making something to eat, but I wasn't hungry at all and I knew I'd just throw most of it out. I didn't want to drive anywhere, gas costs money. And I'd rather not sit through one of the same dozen or so movies I have DVDs for.
A walk sounds nice, a simple walk down the road and back. I put on an overcoat and a beanie before leaving my apartment. I live on the second-... first floor, so walking outside didn't take long. While on the stairway down, my wallet falls out of my back pocket; it keeps rising up my jeans as I walk and it eventually drops right out, especially when I go fast.
Getting down to the ground floor, I take the side door to leave, it's closer, and more peaceful in the alley it leads to anyways. I open the door and step outside when I bump into someone, literally; I walk directly into somebody while they're having a smoke.
I didn't go out much. Either at my job, doing fights, or at the laundromat – which I used at strange times. I recognized this person though, a nice lady who lived somewhere above me, looked like a biker, probably owned a motorcycle if all the revving I hear sometimes is something to go on.
“Sorry, I- uh… Zoning out.” I muttered beneath my breath, stepping back and rubbing the back of my head.
Her expression soured at me, “Were you the asshole being loud as fuck a few minutes ago?”
‘Asshole’? I could beat you so bad you'd wish you never spoke to me.
I turned my head away shamefully, “I-... Didn't realize it was so late… Sorry.” I bring my other hand to my face, biting my nails and tapping my foot on the ground idly.
She scoofs, rolling her eyes, “You need some weed, man.” She gestures at me, “Something for all… that.” She shoves past me, on to continue her day, I mutter a little ‘sure’ under my breath before doing the same.
Why am I so angry…?
Because I'm pathetic, fighting is the only thing I'm good at and I still suck at it.
I don't suck at it, I just keep getting pitted against better fighters.
How long am I going to use that excuse? Well, I guess it's not an excuse if every other fighter is better than me.
I'm not the… not the worst, I just need to work on… things.
I stand there for a moment; the cold breeze hits my skin, and I pull my beanie below my ears, then stuff my hands into my pockets. I liked the cold, I would rather be uncomfortably cold than uncomfortably warm.
I began my walk down the road, enjoying the quiet ambience, not too dissimilar to my home town; it reminded me of walking down the street I grew up on, except colder.
I see a pair of headlights down the road, I hear generic punk rock playing as it approaches. I recognize the car, a duo of punks; I see them sometimes when I have to walk through the parking garage.
Just before reaching me, they veer very close, I almost think they were aiming for me – I flinch – but instead they run through a massive puddle, spraying water everywhere and drenching me.
…
Now there's something to do.
…
I know them, but they don't know me, who'd know if I took a bat and-
No.
Remind them that their actions have consequences, that other people exist and don't like being fucked with.
They're barely adults, they'll learn.
Not without someone teaching them.
I inhale slowly with my nose. My eyebrows tilt downwards. My hands start shaking. I take a step back and turn to-
There's someone there… They stopped as soon as I looked over at them, but they were definitely coming towards me; about a hundred or so feet- fifty meters away. I can't really glean any details, just general shape and size – they seem powerfully built.
They definitely saw that, I must look like an idiot.
… It's not my place to teach those punks, as much as they might deserve it.
I let out a breath I don't realize I'm holding, and keep walking, upping my pace to a speedwalk and looking down at the pavement. It doesn't take me very long to reach the end of the road. I take slow, deep breaths in through my nose; holding each one for multiple seconds before exhaling through my mouth.
I should be getting back, I turn around and-
“Hey, I know you.”
I flinch, my head snaps to the side, spotting someone waiting on the corner with a six pack of beer, pointing and staring at me.
“You're Hoffman, right? The boxer?”
“... Y-... Yeah…” I speak quietly, looking away to avoid eye contact. “What do you want…?”
They take a beer and toss it to me, it's only in my peripheral vision but I still manage to catch it out of the air.
“You did better than you thought.” They nod, holding the rest under their arm then walking away without another word
I look down at the bottle, I don't recognize the brand… Eh, fuck it. I twist the cap open and down the entire thing in one go, trying my best to ignore the taste, and the immediate instinct to vomit.
Dammit … I'm pathetic.
No I'm not, I'm just having a streak of bad luck.
Bullshit, I'm not cut out for this life; I should just quit and stop pretending I'm different.
I just need some time to get my head straight.
I should've never moved away from home, I had friends, family, but here? I'm nothing.
Things are fine here, it's not like I can afford to go back, anyways.
Exactly, I'm stuck here – with nobody that likes me, or that I like; miserable prick.
Shut up-
One day, I'll die. I'll die and nobody will care, it'll probably be a net positive – I'll stop being a bother to my neighbors, and other fighters won't have to waste their time with me.
…
I stand there for a moment, not really feeling anything; but at least somewhat tired, I'll just watch one of the same movies when I get back, nothing better to do. I pull my beanie down again, tossing the empty bottle in a public trashcan then stuffing my hands in my pockets and walking back down the road again.
The sidewalk is empty now, and I walked quickly, wanting to get home quickly before the alcohol ‘settled’. One beer wouldn't do much, I know this, I don't expect to start stumbling from it; but it might help me sleep.
Not far from my apartment I feel my phone buzzing in my pocket, I let out a huff and check it; expecting a spam call or scam message, but-
‘I heard about your match today, sorry about how it went, sending you lots of love!’. I stop in my tracks, it's from my mom.
I immediately try texting her back; but I can only get a handful of letters in before I notice something in the reflection – a blade. I drop my phone in a panic, turning around on my heel, my sneakers scratching the ground loudly.
A huge portion of the sidewalk is cut off by a shape; large, imposing, and very, very close. Its face is covered by a hockey mask, its eyes reflecting a faint light. In one of its hands, raised and primed to strike, held a cleaver – the other one reaching to grab me.
I flinched, so instead of grabbing my wrist; I instead felt a tug as it held an ironclad grip on my sleeve. The cleaver swung on me – I leaned as far back as I could, using the momentum to slip out of my coat and give myself some space.
I thought I dodged it entirely, but I soon felt blood dripping down my face from a cut in my forehead. My instincts kick in; I clench my hands into fists, get into a defensive stance, and make my expression as neutral as I could.
It stands in place, my coat hanging limp in its hand before it drops it, I immediately feel colder. I met its gaze for as long as I could – keeping my eyes wide even as one got covered in blood. As I backed away, it remained motionless, I could tell it was reading me, looking for an in.
Eventually, it finds one, and it charges at me – not recklessly, it knows what it's doing; calculated movements to catch me off guard. I suck in air through my teeth, side-stepping the overhead meant for my temple with maybe an inch of space.
It leans into the strike, and I use the chance to retaliate; striking at its stomach with one fist then swinging widely to hit it in the cheek. I don't even see it turn its head – its eyes are still locked on me, did it even notice-
I feel the blade cut through my shirt, and into my side. The pain doesn't bother me as much as its eyes; emotionless, I couldn't glean a single thing from them. It raised the cleaver again, hitting my head with the handle, sending me stumbling.
Its hand reaches again; grabbing me by the head, mostly getting my beanie but I definitely feel some tugging on my hair. It swings the cleaver again – aiming for the side of my head, I raise my arms to block and defend.
It slices through my forearms – making blood stain the blade, I try pulling away; but its grip is too tight; I can't get out, not without some force and sacrificing a bit of hair. It's perfectly willing to give that force to me, as it raises a leg and kicks me in the stomach, right in the center of mass.
I hear a rip as a handful – literally – of hair gets torn from my head, taking my beanie with it. The kick knocked me off my balance; I keel over and stumble backwards, keeping my arms raised to block my head.
Its hand clenched around my beanie, shaking ever so slightly before it tossed it aside. My poker face drops, my breathing becomes heavy and erratic; my eyes struggle to focus – they keep darting around the general direction of the shape and ignoring its movements.
Of course, it notices; but instead of attempting another grab – or swinging again, it jumps forward and tackles me, bringing me to the ground with its immense weight. I hit the pavement hard; almost screaming, but its free hand reaches to grab my jaw, covering my mouth with its palm.
It raises the cleaver again and swings down, I raise my hands again; so instead of shattering my skull, the blade – still dripping in my blood – carves right into my hand, cutting between my middle and ring finger, almost down to my wrist.
Blood quickly starts seeping out of the wound; a near constant stream pouring down onto my clothes, and dripping onto my face. I hear it exhale as it rips the cleaver out of my hand – uncaring for the little whine of pain I make.
It raises the blade for another strike, and I feel panic flooding my system. I have to do something, do anything other than sit there and die.
I reach up with my good hand and grab at it desperately, hooking my fingers under its mask and pulling down. I hear something snap as I tear it from its face: the elastic strap that keeps it in place. It reels backwards and thankfully gets off of me, covering its face with its hand.
Its mask tumbles to the ground, and I scramble to my feet. I have a moment to think, do I run or fight?
I look up at it, and for the first time I can see an emotion in its eyes; anger.
Run, run. I choose run.
“G-get away fr-from me!” I shout, taking a step back before turning away and running – as fast as I could. I hold an arm over my bleeding side, and use my good hand to hold my split one together. I can feel my shirt and jeans getting stained red with all the cuts and gashes constantly leaking blood, despite my attempts to stop it.
I have to be faster than it, right? It may be stronger, and tougher – but if anything I have to be faster.
Thud thud thud thud thud thud thud thud
I am not faster than it- I AM NOT FASTER THAN IT
I dash down the same alley I went down just a few minutes ago; I wouldn't have time to run to the front entrance, it'd catch me before I got there.
The only thing I hear is my frantic footsteps and erratic breathing – I'm getting incredibly tired; it's getting harder to even stand. I practically crashed against the door, reaching for the handle and turning it. But it doesn't open; no matter how hard I twist, push and pull.
It's locked.
Why is it locked?! Only the landlord could've locked it I thought he was sleeping, what the fuck!?
I snap my head over, it's there; the Shape. holding its mask to its face with one hand, gripping the cleaver in the other. It doesn't wait; taking quick, powerful steps towards me – I could almost feel them.
“W-... W-wait-...” I raise my hands defensively, they shake; dripping sweat and blood. “D-don't- please… I-... I have m-money…” Despite the fear and desperation even I can hear pouring from my own words, it doesn't seem moved; not stopping for a moment.
I step back, my breathing picking up into downright hyperventilation. I crouch and grab something from the ground – what it is doesn't matter – and throw it. “H- help! HELP! SOMEBODY HELP!”
Anything near me that could be picked up and thrown, was picked up and thrown: a rock, a discarded can, a trash can lid, a trash can – nothing stops it.
It hooks an arm around my neck and shoves me on the ground, I fall on my side and roll onto my back. I raise my arms again, tilting my head so blood from my split hand doesn't drop in my eyes. I feel weak, my hands are pale and shaking. This can't be it… can it?
“No-... no pl-please… I don't w-wanna-”
It slams the cleavers handle down; hitting me square in the face. I hear something break – probably my nose, if the sudden difficulty to breathe through it is anything to go by. My hands drop, I'm too weak to focus properly, and I'm forced to take short breaths out of my mouth.
It looks down at me for a moment, its chest rising and falling with its own slow, methodical breathing. Seeing the cleaver raise a final time, I brace; closing my watering eyes, hitching my breath and turning my head away.
CHOOM
My entire body flinches from the sound, I feel a bunch of small objects pepper over my face, and loud ringing in my ears. I'm still breathing – though shallow breaths, I can still feel – all the pain, and I can still open my eyes.
It’s not looking at me anymore, instead glaring at a source of light now covering the both of us. There's a fresh divot in the wall across from the door; parts of the brickwork crumbling.
CLK CLK
I see it duck, and take a step to the side.
CHOOM
A flash, more ringing, another hole in the brickwork wall – rubble from it falling on me as the shape steps away.
CLK CLK
It turns and runs, the last I see of it is it sprinting down the alley; then turning the corner to get out of sight.
I strain myself, turning onto my side to face the door. I see my landlord: the wheelchair bound man and the rifle I've never seen him without. And the biker lady who lives above me, a basket of laundry dropped beside her.
She runs up to me and presses a finger to my neck; right on the pulse point – I'd swat her hand away if I had the strength to. She grabs me under the arms and drags me inside, my body leaving a trail of blood.
She sits me against the wall, the landlord wheels away quickly to go get… something. She's speaking, but I'm only getting bits and pieces. “Wh.. h.p… d? H.w… ny… f. gr… hl… p?” she waves a hand in front of me, holding up two… no three… wait five-... some amount of fingers.
My peripheral vision starts to blur, my eyes begin darting around frantically. It's so fucking cold… I reach up and hold onto her hand, squeezing as hard as my body would let me. She squeezes back, placing her other hand on my chest to keep me still “y.ll b. ..ne… C.lm d… B..t..”
My vision blurs further, my landlord wheels back over with a military grade medkit, letting it clatter to the ground before shouting to someone I can't see. “H…ry .p! S..me...ys dy..g!”
Someone I don't recognize runs up to me, frantically putting on medical gloves and a face mask. I feel my breathing slow as my vision gradually fades into darkness, the last thing I see is a needle piercing my skin, I don't feel it – I don't feel anything other than cold.
It's so cold…