by Morgan Rice
He throws me and I go flying through the air at full speed, not knowing I could move that fast, and land hard on the floor on the opposite side of the ring. I feel another rib crack, and as my head rolls and smashes into the metal, I feel another welt form on my forehead. I wonder how much more abuse my body can take.
I sense him coming at me again, and this time, I am just too beat up to move. I lay there, on the floor, face down, struggling to catch my breath. He takes his time. It is clear that he will kill me when he reaches me. It is a death walk.
I’m too tired and weak and delirious to do anything more than accept my fate. I feel I am destined to die. Here, in this place. At this moment. I feel as if I’ve failed, let Bree down.
As I lay there, breathing hard, blood coming from my mouth, slowly, over the sound of the ringing in my ears, over the din of the crowd, there gradually comes another sound. It is a voice. The voice of my Dad. It is a stern voice. The voice he always used to chastise me. To force me to push myself. To be more than I could be.
Be tough, Marine! Stop feeling sorry for yourself! If you think you’re a failure, then you are! Be strong! BE STRONG!
His voice becomes deafening, drowning out everything. I look up, my vision blurry, and for a moment I could swear I actually see Dad standing there, hands on his hips, scowling down. There is disapproval—even disgust—on his face. And that is what motivates me. That is what makes something snap inside.
I could never stand to see my father disapproving of me. I would always do whatever it took just to silence him, just to prove him wrong. This time is no different. I feel a rush of adrenaline as I feel myself surge with anger, with the need to prove him wrong. I’m filled with a new fury, and it forces me to my hands and knees.
BE STRONG!
The brute takes three big steps, winding up to deliver a knockout kick to my face. I can already tell that if the kick connects, it will break every bone in my face.
But now, I am ready. I surprise him by rolling out of the way at the last second, a split second before the kick reaches me. He misses and instead kicks the metal fence. He kicks it with such force that his foot lodges into one of the metal chain links.
I jump to my feet and in the same motion run across the ring and grab the mace. The brute yanks at his foot, trying to get it out of the cage—but he is stuck.
This time, I don’t wait. This time, I don’t hesitate. Finally, I have learned my lesson.
I charge across the ring, and with all I have, I swing the mace, wind up the ball. I realize I only have one shot at this, and I take aim for his huge, bald, muscular head.
I get closer to him. Ten feet…five.… I swing and let the ball go.
Suddenly, he yanks his foot out of the cage and turns and faces me.
I’ve already set the chain in motion and the ball is already spinning, flying over my head, through the air. And just as he turns to face me, the ball comes swinging around and lodges right into the side of his head. It lodges into his temple, and as it does, blood squirts out. I let go of the shaft.
The crowd is stunned into silence.
The brute takes a step back, stumbles, then reaches up in shock, grabs the shaft, and yanks it out of his own head. As he does, brains and blood come out.
I stand there, horrified, frozen. I can’t fathom how someone could continue to function after a blow like that.
But then, after a moment, he drops the shaft, and buckles to his knees. He falls forward on his face. His hands lay limp at his side, and a second later, to my shock, I realize he is dead. I have killed him.
After a second of stunned silence, the crowd suddenly leaps to its feet. It roars and screams louder than I’ve ever heard. And this time, they chant my name.
“BROOKE! BROOKE! BROOKE!”
I barely even hear it. Whatever strength was left in me suddenly disappears, and a moment later, I feel the world spinning, feel my knees go weak, feel myself collapsing. The last thing I see is the floor racing up towards me, striking me in the face.
And then my world is blackness.
T W E N T Y