06-20-2014, 10:25 PM
The building seemed dark despite the lamps that threw light over everything. Maybe it was the shape of the backs of the lamps. The light poured out like cones, only illuminating small circles on the floor. The walls and corners were shadows. The walls were old brick. He wondered what the building had been. It nothing specific stood out to identify the room's former function. No chairs, no benches. Just black walls, lights and 14 men standing around cheering in a loose wide circle while two men punched each with heave platts and sounds of grunts.
One of the men- Crewcut looking like he had just had it done this morning- had elbowed the other one in the face and blood few from his mouth. The other guy- Connor thought of him as Stringbean because he was so wiry skinny, veins and muscle striations visible in the shadowed light- reared back and head butted Crewcut in the face and his nose crumpled, blood fountaining down his mouth and chin. Stringbean kicked momentarily stunned Crewcut in the side of the leg and Crewcut went down. Connor watched, somehow cheering inside despite not knowing or caring who won. Crewcut was now being hit in the face, the back of his head slapping the the ground with each blow. Just as Stringbean was about to hit him again, he yelled "Stop!", spewing blood all over Stringbean's face and chest. Stringbean immediately scrambled off Crewcut's body as Crewcut rolled over and tried to get up. Eventually he was standing up, though clearly in pain.
What amazed Connor, though, was the look on both their faces, the light in their eyes. They looked alive, as if they had been through a brutal liturgy and had just tasted communion, the power of God soaring through their veins. Much later, Connor would learned that Stringbean had been left by his wife and lost his kids in a divorce just last month. He'd lost his job at a bank and had been forced to accept part-time work as a janitor. Crewcut was a public servant who worked in the Comptroller's office. He later told Connor that he hated telling people what he did for work because they forgot five minutes later, it was that boring. But in the ring, win or lose, he was a god, as was Stringbean.
The cheering died down and Charlie introduced Connor simply by saying, "All right guys. This is Connor. He wants to fight. End of story. Who wants to go against him?"
A few of the guys raised their hands, but one guy in a blue suit stepped forward.
"Me,"
he said, taking off his jacket, tie, shirt, belt and shoes. After a moment, he pulled the ring off his finger and put it in his jacket pocket. He was not heavily muscled but rather had the doughy physique of someone who sat at a desk all day and then didn't go home and try to make up for all that sitting around.
"You too Connor," said Charlie, so Connor took his jacket, shirt, belt and boots off. It seemed like it would be an unfair fight, really, but Connor was the new guy and kept his mouth shut. Besides, the blood was pumping now, the adrenaline. And strangely, in the back of his mind an anger was building slowly, building pressure, anger at the universe that had conspired to take everything from him, that judged him unworthy of anything that might make him happy, that stole that happiness or poisoned it, making it a lie.
Desk came at him much more quickly than he expected, but he fended him off with a blow. His thoughts one by one closed off as Desk came at him again and again, like Connor had something he wanted. Connor only focused on blocking but some of the blows hurt. Desk became more enraged and his hands and feet and body moved even faster and Connor was focused on just defense, time slowing, the sounds of the cheering men fading until there was only himself and Desk. And then Connor himself attacked, body moving on instinct, as if inside him there was a primate that still remembered what it meant to survive.
The fight became the thing, the sharp pains in his ribs, the arm around his neck choking, the sweat and the blood and the mouth bleeding. He was a symphony of physical sensation and pain, as he both received and inflicted what it meant to live- the struggle against all odds, the fight, the complete and utter unwillingness to stop or give up.
Desk was on his back on the ground, Connor being held in a choke hold and the heat and the stuffiness of the room was growing, even as he flailed and tried to break the hold. But Desk was like a vice, weazing as he held on, as if he could pop Connor's head off. Connor began to feel light-headed, as if the movements of his body were being performed by someone else. Everything in the room seemed to both get darker and more indistinct and yet crisper and more vibrant, as if his mind were picking up details he missed but now that time was slowing he could see it all, even the cracks in the mortar of the bricks, the smells of the the blood and sweat, the sheen in the eyes of the onlookers, spittle flying from their mouths and they cheered, the feels of the hairs on Desk's arm against his throat, and the feel of the air struggling to get down to his lungs, as it fought and he fought, sweat dripping from his chest and head, beads moving slowly and purposely, until finally the room dimmed even as he felt every emotion and sensation that had been heightened slowly extinguish....
He awoke to the feel of the most refreshingly cold floor and the sweetest air he'd ever smelled, as if he'd had the single greatest nap of his life, as if he had been reborn. The air was filled with cheers and the onlooker's faces were beatific. Desk was over him asking him if he was ok, a look of rapture and complete peace on his face. Connor took his outstretched hand and was helped up, every nerve in his body on fire and feeling everything around him.
He felt as if he had been reborn as a god. Desk grabbed him and gave him a great bear of a hug, this soft doughy man who was a warrior inside, who despite his job and looks and anything else he or the world hated about himself, this god who for those few minutes had showed that he would not go quietly, would not shy away from the battle even if the other man was bigger or strong, who would fight until he had won. It felt like Connor had given him the greatest gift in the world. This was his brother and he hugged the guy back, mouth smiling despite the incredible pain, the cheers and laughter resounding in his ear.
He was so very alive now, all the deadness and confusion somehow gone. Nothing had been solved, no answers given, no epiphanies experienced. But at the same time, somehow, he felt connected to what he was on the inside. It didn't matter than he'd lost. There was no winning or losing. Life was about experience, the raw visceral bloody pain and pleasure and struggle and refusal to go quietly in the night.
Connor had found a new home.
Edited by Connor Kent, Jun 21 2014, 01:52 PM.
One of the men- Crewcut looking like he had just had it done this morning- had elbowed the other one in the face and blood few from his mouth. The other guy- Connor thought of him as Stringbean because he was so wiry skinny, veins and muscle striations visible in the shadowed light- reared back and head butted Crewcut in the face and his nose crumpled, blood fountaining down his mouth and chin. Stringbean kicked momentarily stunned Crewcut in the side of the leg and Crewcut went down. Connor watched, somehow cheering inside despite not knowing or caring who won. Crewcut was now being hit in the face, the back of his head slapping the the ground with each blow. Just as Stringbean was about to hit him again, he yelled "Stop!", spewing blood all over Stringbean's face and chest. Stringbean immediately scrambled off Crewcut's body as Crewcut rolled over and tried to get up. Eventually he was standing up, though clearly in pain.
What amazed Connor, though, was the look on both their faces, the light in their eyes. They looked alive, as if they had been through a brutal liturgy and had just tasted communion, the power of God soaring through their veins. Much later, Connor would learned that Stringbean had been left by his wife and lost his kids in a divorce just last month. He'd lost his job at a bank and had been forced to accept part-time work as a janitor. Crewcut was a public servant who worked in the Comptroller's office. He later told Connor that he hated telling people what he did for work because they forgot five minutes later, it was that boring. But in the ring, win or lose, he was a god, as was Stringbean.
The cheering died down and Charlie introduced Connor simply by saying, "All right guys. This is Connor. He wants to fight. End of story. Who wants to go against him?"
A few of the guys raised their hands, but one guy in a blue suit stepped forward.
"Me,"
he said, taking off his jacket, tie, shirt, belt and shoes. After a moment, he pulled the ring off his finger and put it in his jacket pocket. He was not heavily muscled but rather had the doughy physique of someone who sat at a desk all day and then didn't go home and try to make up for all that sitting around.
"You too Connor," said Charlie, so Connor took his jacket, shirt, belt and boots off. It seemed like it would be an unfair fight, really, but Connor was the new guy and kept his mouth shut. Besides, the blood was pumping now, the adrenaline. And strangely, in the back of his mind an anger was building slowly, building pressure, anger at the universe that had conspired to take everything from him, that judged him unworthy of anything that might make him happy, that stole that happiness or poisoned it, making it a lie.
Desk came at him much more quickly than he expected, but he fended him off with a blow. His thoughts one by one closed off as Desk came at him again and again, like Connor had something he wanted. Connor only focused on blocking but some of the blows hurt. Desk became more enraged and his hands and feet and body moved even faster and Connor was focused on just defense, time slowing, the sounds of the cheering men fading until there was only himself and Desk. And then Connor himself attacked, body moving on instinct, as if inside him there was a primate that still remembered what it meant to survive.
The fight became the thing, the sharp pains in his ribs, the arm around his neck choking, the sweat and the blood and the mouth bleeding. He was a symphony of physical sensation and pain, as he both received and inflicted what it meant to live- the struggle against all odds, the fight, the complete and utter unwillingness to stop or give up.
Desk was on his back on the ground, Connor being held in a choke hold and the heat and the stuffiness of the room was growing, even as he flailed and tried to break the hold. But Desk was like a vice, weazing as he held on, as if he could pop Connor's head off. Connor began to feel light-headed, as if the movements of his body were being performed by someone else. Everything in the room seemed to both get darker and more indistinct and yet crisper and more vibrant, as if his mind were picking up details he missed but now that time was slowing he could see it all, even the cracks in the mortar of the bricks, the smells of the the blood and sweat, the sheen in the eyes of the onlookers, spittle flying from their mouths and they cheered, the feels of the hairs on Desk's arm against his throat, and the feel of the air struggling to get down to his lungs, as it fought and he fought, sweat dripping from his chest and head, beads moving slowly and purposely, until finally the room dimmed even as he felt every emotion and sensation that had been heightened slowly extinguish....
He awoke to the feel of the most refreshingly cold floor and the sweetest air he'd ever smelled, as if he'd had the single greatest nap of his life, as if he had been reborn. The air was filled with cheers and the onlooker's faces were beatific. Desk was over him asking him if he was ok, a look of rapture and complete peace on his face. Connor took his outstretched hand and was helped up, every nerve in his body on fire and feeling everything around him.
He felt as if he had been reborn as a god. Desk grabbed him and gave him a great bear of a hug, this soft doughy man who was a warrior inside, who despite his job and looks and anything else he or the world hated about himself, this god who for those few minutes had showed that he would not go quietly, would not shy away from the battle even if the other man was bigger or strong, who would fight until he had won. It felt like Connor had given him the greatest gift in the world. This was his brother and he hugged the guy back, mouth smiling despite the incredible pain, the cheers and laughter resounding in his ear.
He was so very alive now, all the deadness and confusion somehow gone. Nothing had been solved, no answers given, no epiphanies experienced. But at the same time, somehow, he felt connected to what he was on the inside. It didn't matter than he'd lost. There was no winning or losing. Life was about experience, the raw visceral bloody pain and pleasure and struggle and refusal to go quietly in the night.
Connor had found a new home.
Edited by Connor Kent, Jun 21 2014, 01:52 PM.