by J. Kowallis
I can’t let this slow me down.
Before I’m even aware the ground is starting to balance again, I grab him by the hair. I yank him around. I thrust my knee into the hollow center of his chest. The force knocks him over. He skids on the ground. I rush to him, kicking hard into his stomach.
Once. He groans. Twice. He heaves. Three times. He cusses. The fourth lands so hard in his stomach he vomits on the ground. He reaches out to balance himself. I grab his arm. I wrench it clockwise. I hear it pop. I crank my leg back. Ready to kick again. Like a bolt of lightning, his foot jerks toward my left leg and unbalances me. The force of his foot on my shin . . . it jerks my knee backwards. The sharp bolt shooting through my kneecap . . . down my leg . . . it’s strong enough to send me to my ass. It’s unbearable. My leg feels torn in half.
I’m so tired. The exhaustion controls me. It slows me down.
I can do this. I have to do this. I have to get back up.
For the smallest second I catch Estevan’s eyes. His face is like stone. I can’t read him. Usually he’s screaming at me, coaching, and throwing cheap-shot words at my opponent. I need him to yell at me. I need something.
I’m losing.
My head drops and I exhale heavily. A dribble of pink saliva falls from my mouth to the dirt below. Appearing like a shadow, Roydon’s boot catches my jaw, crunching against my bone and jerking my head around.
The whole world rotates around me like I’m a top, spinning in a cyclone. It never ends. Everything’s a blur and I can’t make out a single detail. I land with a thud, air forcing its way out of my lungs, my face grinding into the earth. Dirt coats the inside of my mouth, dry and bitter. My eyes constrict tightly and reopen, somehow trying re-set my vision. My saliva turns the dirt in my mouth to mud and I don’t have time to spit it out before Roydon’s heel blasts into my kidneys.
The pain is excruciating.
My vocal chords tear out a harsh scream. I drive my fist into the ground to absorb the sting. I try to push my body off the dirt floor but the full weight of his knee rams into my back and he holds me to the ground.
With thunderous pulses, my heart leaps up into my throat. His hands grasp the side of my head. I feel his hot breath on my ear. He pauses for only a moment before the words come out. “I’m so sorry for this.”
The sympathy in his voice is so heavy it weakens my entire body. I was wrong. He’s not weak.
My body won’t cooperate the way I know it can. Even if I put all my energy and focus into knocking him on his back, all I’d do is hurt myself. More than I already am.
The overwhelming reality of death smacks into me. So many years of fighting and not once have I ever felt the white light sucking my soul from my body.
There’s only one way I’ll escape this. My will to live overrides any promises I’ve made to Estevan. No matter how much trust I put in my fighting now, I know there’s no way of getting out.
My hands shake, straining to reach up and grab his wrist. He’s preparing to snap my neck. I close my eyes and grab onto him, focusing on his pulse, his blood, his heart. I can feel the warmth of the blood beneath his skin. Flowing in a pulsing rush. Heavy. Strong. It’s getting hotter. It hasn’t yet reached his heart. When his pulse rockets, I know. He feels it. The burning, boiling blood running through his system. Beneath my hand I can feel the skin begin to blister. The same thing is happening to the inside of his body.
He tries to pull away. I won’t let him go. I’m latched onto him. I can’t let him go. He’ll kill me.
Roydon attempts to yank his arms away again and I hold tighter than ever.
From out of nowhere a second pair of hands rips my own off of him. But they only last for a small moment. Someone else is in the ring.
My eyes fly open. Estevan?
The pressure on my back lifts as Roydon releases me and recoils. I can finally breathe again and I gasp. I pull myself up and small rocks jab the palms of my hands. I look around for Papá, but he’s still on the other side of the ring.
There were four hands. Two from Roydon on my head, and the two grasping my wrists.
With the energy I have left, I spin around to look at my opponent. His eyelids are stretched so far open, his eyes may jump from his skull. He’s breathing hard. His veins are scarlet red, heating his skin. Roydon looks like he’s climbed out of a boiling stock pot. Sweat pours from his hair, sticking to his neck, and running down his back.
There’s not a single person around us. It’s me and him in the ring. I stumble to my feet, scowling at him, a blur of questions running through my mind. Who pulled me off? What the hell just happened? If no one else was here . . .then . . . .
I spin around, trying to look for the person I felt grab me. Everyone is behind the ropes. I jerk my eyes back to Roydon.
Why does he look scared? No, not scared, but . . . he looks at me with, what I think is recognition.
I look up into the stands and see the crowd yelling and calling to Roydon and I. Even if anything had happened, they’re all probably too drunk to notice.
Roydon’s still staring me down. His skin is returning to a normal color, but the look on his face twists and hardens.
―ROYDON―
Holy damn mother of hell.
It’s not possible.
What the hell was that shit? I’ll tell you want it was: everything I’ve ever believed is a big fat-ass lie.
It can’t be.
I’ve never seen another person like me before. My muscles still burn. What she did to me was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. My blood seared the lining of my body. Each individual vein. And she did it with the touch of her hand.
I’ve never projected in a fight before. It’s always been too dicey to expose myself. I know the risks and you’d think she would too. The probability of letting The Public know what I can do. They’d take me. It would be the end of the community.
She made me do it; almost like I couldn’t stop myself. The natural need for survival overrode my own rules, and I projected.
Benitez looks around the crowd, possibly with the same question I have. Maybe even wondering what the hell just happened. Did anyone recognize what we did? Did she? The crowd thunders at us, chanting to get us to fight again. But no one, not a soul seems to have noticed what happened. With all the alcohol running through their systems, seeing double or quadruple wouldn’t phase them. But not everyone here is drunk.
I turn to check out where Caspar is. The look on his face matches my own. He saw everything. At least, the look on his face suggests he thinks he saw what happened. I can tell he’s not quite sure. Whatever he’s sure of, though, is Ransley and I are no longer fighting. The crowd is getting angrier the longer she and I stay apart. Caspar takes a vintage handgun out of his jacket, flashing it under the bright headlights surrounding the ring. He and his men start to move closer to the ring.
If Ransley or I don’t kill the other, we’ll both die with holes in our heads. I have to make a decision. Waiting here is no longer an option.
Neither is killing her. How can I kill the only other person in the world I’ve ever met who’s like me?
One of us has to die though.
It’s not going to be me.
Ransley looks over to her mentor, so I push myself away from the rope, charging her. She doesn’t even notice me before I drive her down. Her legs twist underneath her and I stomp on her knee. The familiar pop of joints coming loose reaches my ears and she screams a curse at me. She grasps her damaged leg and I bend down to lace my arm around her neck. With her good leg, she kicks against me. It’s like a wrecking ball, and I’m shoved into the circle’s outer rope. It gives way underneath my weight and pops out of the large corner pole. Quickly, I reach for the end and hold it taut between my hands.
Ransley struggles to her feet, keeping her bad leg lifted up slightly. I walk toward her cautiously and she swears at me. “Come on,” she winces. “I don’t have all freakin’ day.”
The moment I’m clos
e enough, she drives her fist toward me. I bend to the side, and she misses. I wrap the rope around her thrown fist and yank her closer. She fumbles on her dislocated, or possibly broken, leg and falls down. With her on the ground, I twist the end of the rope around her neck and keep it loose enough to talk.
Explosive chanting beats against my ears. They still burn hot. Ransley’s face reddens with the reduced amount of air I’m allowing down her windpipe.
“You have to pass out, Benitez,” I whisper, pleading with her.
“What?!” she hisses low with the reserved air she has in her lungs. Since I’m basically asking her to die, how could she take that lightly? She doesn’t recognize the difference between the end and mercy, and I sure as hell don’t blame her.
“The only way we’re both going to make it out of here alive is if you die. Caspar and his damn Jimmies saw what I did and if one of us doesn’t die soon, he’ll kill us both.”
“I . . .” she struggles to loosen the rope, and to please the crowd I pretend to tighten it around her throat, keeping my thumb between the rope and her wet skin. I can feel the rhythmic beat of her pulse flowing along her neck, slower than before, struggling for oxygen. Her muscles tighten when she speaks. “I nev–er l–ose.”
“Benitez,” I glare at her, “you have to.”
I twist her head and neck ever so slightly so she can see what I see. Her eyes move to the side, looking for Caspar. My hair falls in my face, my sweat dripping off the ends and onto the side of her face. It’s blocking my view of the men, but I know she can see them. Her jaw tightens and she struggles again.
“Why does,” she chokes, “. . . it have to be me?” She gurgles again and glares at me, shooting barbs with her eyes.
“Can you get out of this?” I raise my eyebrows and yank the rope hard to prove my point, but still keep it from tightening too much.
Her teeth grind together, but the moment I know she’s allowing me, I remove my thumb and tighten the rope enough to cut off the air supply fully. A jerk pulls from the inside of her body. Her lungs are begging for air, protesting against my hold. The burning copper in her eyes dies behind her lids; they slowly close. She passes out and I immediately loosen the rope, attempting to make it look like I’m yanking it even tighter. The crowd goes crazy and I let her drop to the ground.
Her chest has to rise soon. If she’s without oxygen for too long, she’ll have brain damage. Come on, come on, dammit. It’s not moving.
Breathe, Ransley. Breathe.
Ever so slightly, almost too small to see, her stomach rises and falls before the men yank her body away from the rope and out of the arena.
“THE WINNER, AND VICTOR, ROYDON!!!” the announcer’s annoying voice blasts into his communicator.
My tongue runs over my split lip, tasting the iron congealed over the tear. I lick it away, the taste spreading over my tongue. Fresh blood flows out again and I spit it out. She’d nearly gotten the better of me. If I hadn’t gotten her on the ground and forced her to use her power on me, she could have taken me.
I was damn lucky. We both were.
It’s not the luck, or the fight that’s sending my head on a bender.
I’m not the only one.
For years . . . for as long as I can remember, it’s been only me. I was the different one.
The announcer grabs my wrist and slams a wad of pesos into my other with his slimy hand before raising it in the air. Screams and horn blasts sound again and I yank my arm back, stuffing my winnings into my pocket. I still have more fighting to do. Unless I can get out of it.
I have to tell Estevan about his daughter.
I look through the crowd. Estevan is pulling through the crowd toward me. It doesn’t take long before his eyes lock with mine. The fury of a father rages within him and I know the moment I come within arm’s distance, he’ll kill me if given the chance. His jaw is thrust forward, heavy breathing lifts his thick chest up and down, and the tendons in his neck flex like violin bow strings. Like Caspar and his faction of muscle, Estevan isn’t drunk. He would have seen my projection like Caspar. In which case, he knows everything I know—except only I know Ransley’s death was faked.
I’ll have to talk damn fast.
He pushes his way through the people around him, shoving some so hard they fall into others. Small fights break out behind him. I pick up my shirt, toss it over my shoulder, and duck under the rope preparing myself to explain everything to Estevan. Behind, I hear the protests of that ass-ugly announcer trying to get me to come back. I hold up a finger, telling him to wait.
I thrust a few people out of my way so I can make it to the end of the rusted bleachers before Estevan can get to me. The putrid stench of human urine and alcohol clouds the area, but I wait patiently for him to make his way over. Luckily, or unluckily, it doesn't take that long. He maneuvers like a bullet through the people between us, giving zero care to who he tosses in the process. Dozens of people raise their hands and fingers offensively before they realize who pushed them. They curl back, avoiding any reaction from Benitez.
The moment he breaks through the crowd, he juts his finger at me, cussing in Spanish. He throws his fist and I put up my hands to block it. A stinging burst flashes down my forearm shielding my face. It feels like his fist had been moving at eighty miles an hour.
“Estevan, don’t!” I hiss at him, grabbing the old man by his hair and bringing him in to knee his gut. He hunches over in pain and I growl quietly under the roar of the crowd. “She’s alive. Your daughter’s alive!”
“What?” he spits and digs a fist into my ribcage. Dammit to hell that hurts like a mother-lovin’ . . . .
The look on Estevan’s face is a discordant blend of disbelief and absolute hope.
“Your daughter!” I whisper, careful to keep Caspar’s eyes from seeing us communicating. “Ransley? That’s her name, right?”
“Ransley’s alive?” Estevan struggles in my hold.
“I’m gonna pretend to kick you,” I growl, sure Caspar is going to see.
“What?” he roars.
“Pretend to take it!”
I lift my knee up with a ton of fake power and Estevan plays the part perfectly.
“She’s alive, but we have to hurry.” I whisper. “She only passed out and if she wakes up before we get to her, they’ll kill her for sure. And then they’ll kill me because she’s not dead.”
A movement catches my eye over Estevan’s shoulder and I see Caspar watching us.
“They might kill me anyway, no matter what I do,” I add. “Now,” I brace myself, “the only way I can get out of my other fights is if you beat the shit out of me. Make it look real, but please . . . don’t murder me.”
Estevan glares at me and I drive my fist into his wrinkled and sun-damaged face. His weight is heavy enough on top that I knock him off balance and he falls back into the empty cans and bottles behind him. Either that or he handed me a performance. Like a wild bull he leaps up and drives his shoulder into my chest. We hit the ground. Fists like damn bricks. One to my temple, my nose, my ear. My head shoots to the left. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Caspar headed over with his men.
“Estevan! Caspar!”
He understands and finishes with one last drive into my bruised ribs. Sonofa . . .
“Where is she?” he whispers.
“Meet me at the Plaza de Armas.”
A look of realization spreads on his face and he nods. For effect, he haucks on the ground and stalks away, keeping Caspar within his sights. I roll over, thoroughly shit-beaten. Caspar makes it over to me and lifts me with a jerk to my feet.
“Where did that bastard go?”
I shake my head. “I dunno.”
Caspar glares out into the darkness. Then he turns on me. His eyes scan my face, boring into my eyes. “What was that back there?”
“What are you talking about?” I spit.
“You know what. Tell me I didn’t see what I saw.”
“Okay.” I shr
ug. “You didn’t see it. Though I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” I feign a wince and grab at my ribs. “Damn it. That man’s interference is gonna throw off my night.”
Caspar grunts, folding his arms. “I don’t care.” He licks his lips. “You may look like hell. But you’re in it until I say you’re done.”
Dick.
“Eat shit, Caspar. I’m done tonight.” I turn to leave.
“You must not have heard me right, pretty boy.”
I stop. Great. “I’ll tell you what,” I say, pivoting to face him. “If you don’t let me leave, you’ll never see me in your ring ever again.”
Caspar’s face is hard. “You think you can bargain with me?”
“That’s what I’m doing, asshole.”
He licks his lips. He knows I bring in more money than any other fighter. I’ve got him.
“You do one more fight tonight. My rules. Or I shoot you. Then, maybe I let you leave.”
Keeping his eyes locked, I toss my shirt to his feet.
―ESTEVAN―
Ahead, beneath the yellowed glow of the dimmed street light, a dark figure sprinted toward him. The kid was dressed in ripped jeans, a black t-shirt that said Panic! At The Disco, and the look was finished off with a torn red windbreaker. His combat boots beat against the broken pavement. Estevan wondered if the line Roydon had fed him was a lie to get his trasero out of the city before Estevan could cave his skull in.
The moment Estevan saw Ransley’s eyes roll back into her head, he’d felt everything die inside. For a split second, his entire life crumbled. Ransley’s life was over. Two fights in, and she’d lost. He’d lost. Again. It was like watching his family gunned down all over again—even though he was promised she was still alive. If he could only see her to make sure, he’d never let her fight again.
Roydon approached the light pole. Estevan came to attention and headed for the kid. The light burnished the boy’s brown hair, casting a hint of faint silvery shine through the strands. Shadows dropped over his eyes, hiding them from view.
