"Hederrik" by Laura Skylie Engler

       He had a devilish grin that I truly despised and, under the scrutiny of that sinister smile, all the words I desired to say remained locked in my throat like prisoners. He stood only a few measly feet away, positioned in a dominating stance that made his intentions to fight as obvious as the red blemish that rested between his eyebrows. His clenched fists were raised, prepared to strike like the nefarious vipers that were tattooed on the backs of his dark hands. The heavy pit in my stomach made me to regret ever speaking a word to him in the first place, but there was no longer any way to weasel my way out of this dreaded scuffle. The mingled aroma of fear--my fear--and sweat kept up in our preparatory stances. My fists were balled so tightly that I assumed all the tiny bones in my fingers would crush under the pressure. It felt like that was a good chance that the tension between us would crush me!
        Without warning, there was a strange glint in his eyes and I saw a snide curl slip into the corners of this large lips. Recognizing that meaning in that subtle change, I prepared myself for the charge, but no amount of anticipation could prevent the immense power of his pummel from taking its toll on my body. My original assumption convinced me that he would swing for my venerable face. I almost thought that, for a moment, I could feel the tingling, stinging ache in the flesh of my cheek, but that false perception was whisked away the moment he planted a solid blow to my stomach. As I attempted not to wince, a guttural moan came out of me with staggering trouble, tangling itself in my trachea and tripping on the pain parading through my pathetic body.
       Despite my agony and shock, I retaliated rather quickly. After all, severe pain always seems to manifest into some form of deranged passion, and I tried to channel my own metamorphosis into an effective counterattack. With a slight battle cry, I delivered a jaw-shattering drop kick, knowing my feet are stronger than my hands. A raging rapid of adrenaline washed over me, wiping out my visual perception. I had to depend on my memory to serve as my eyes, because the only things I could distinguish were colourful, blending blurs of what used to be the world around me. The sudden solidity of something under my foot told me that I had, indeed, made successful contact with his face. He released a grunt and staggered backwards as I landed. My sight returned as I bent into my landing, just in time to see him wipe the trail of saliva from his square chin. His sculpted arms fell to his sides and I don't think I'll ever forget the indignant, hateful scowl that he held on his face when we caught glances.
        I slowly sucked in the stale air to sedate my racing pulse. I moved sooner than I had expected I would, and he terminated any second attack I might have made. From my right, like some sudden flash of light, I saw his balled fist approaching at what seemed to be a miraculous speed. I was able to catch a quick glimpse of the metal ring festooned with a crown of three sharp spikes on his middle fingers. It happened so fast that the fear barely had time to process in my head. His blow was solid, firm on my cheekbone, digging deep trenches into my cheeks. Severe pain tore through me, screaming and resonating in my head. As faint waterfalls of warm blood trickled down my cheek from the lacerations, my concept of time slowed. Seconds became minutes to my mind, and my view was again obscured, this time into a searing mixture of red and black. The noise I made sounded seemed to drag on in my head, warping a cough and a grunt and merging them together. My fall to the cold concrete was painstakingly slow, and, somewhere during the decent, my mind went blank.
       In reality, this all happened in only a few blinks of the eye, and I crumpled like a pathetic weakling on the ground. One of my hands clutched at the concrete and the other remained close to my ringing head, as if hovering it there would make the migraine disintegrate. My breathing was reduced to labored, pitiful wheezes and gasps, and I wasn't entirely sure if I could feel the right side of my face or not. I tried to lick at my dry lips, but I was instead confronted with the coppery taste of my own blood. I was reluctant to wipe the blood away; I didn't want to show any weakness. Forget the fact that I had fallen to my knees, mewling and whimpering, defeated by a mere punch to the face. At that moment, I just didn't want him to know he had made me bleed, perhaps, although he'd probably seen already.
        He reached down, grabbed my arm, and hauled me to my feet. The firmness under my boots didn't prevent my knees from turning to gelatin, but he prevented another fall by gracefully slinging my arm over his shoulder and wrapping one of his own around my waist for support. My knees desperately desired to be back down on the concrete, where they could not possibly get hurt in another drop. On the ground, I could not fall. But he made me move, bringing me to a place where I could rest. He chuckled all the way there, amused by his pathetic opponent, my easy defeat. It was a strange, rich sound in my post-hit haze, one that would certainly have enraged me if I were not in this vague state. He set me down in a chair, gently wiping the blood from my face with the sleeve of his cologne-drenched jacket. It was cheap cologne, so the smell made my stomach twist, and he laughed at the contortion of my face. "The gentlemanly thing for me to do," he said, "would be to call this a draw, but, quite frankly, I think stopping so you don't embarrass yourself further is about as gentlemanly as I get." His voice was cocksure and he was grinning like a Cheshire cat. And how I hated that grin!