You Don't Pull No Punches

And you keep screaming and there's nobody around to hear.
But there are. They're right there, around you. Two? Three? You don't rememeber. The last few minutes have lasted an eternity and the only sounds are the growling of the air in your ears and the roaring of futility in your lungs and the desperate feeling that you might have to do anything and nothing and the unthinkable to get out of here. Because you're totally alone. You know where you are and how you got there and somehow none of it makes any difference anymore. It's a parking lot. And it's dark with only the cheese grater pattern of the stars in the sky to light the air and the sense of darkness all around you pushing around with the lamps vyiing for control. Darkness keeps winning, if only for a few hours. And that scares the hell out of you. And you know why. Because this was all
inevitable. In your dreams you're a hero. In your dreams. And you think you can save people when you're no better than they are, just as insignificant and just as puny and when the time comes you're just as lonely and scared and panicked as the rest of them.
And he tries to punch you. Dancing around the parking lot trying to kill each other. Or the next best thing. People are watching and you think you hear screaming but it might be just the wordless rage of anger. Coherent and fully understanable. His fist is a lumpy missile aimed at your head, designed to blunt and hurt. You block clumsily and feel the jarring thud of flesh on flesh. You remember hearing it before. It's how it all started.
When the rage stayed quiet no longer when you couldn't stand around and watch anymore when averting your eyes didn't block out the sights, when hiding in your private night didn't help anymore. You get a quick look at his face before you turn away and duck, attempting to take out his legs. In your dreams you can feel the white cold snap of your uniform, the flickerings of your belt in the lines of your vision and every kick and movement is perfect. In your dreams. That was then. Now everything is amplified and maginified and the air won't stop screaming. Your kick connects for no apparent reason. Sheer luck. Stupid. He's staggering, a surprised look on his face but you don't want to stare him in the eyes. Don't want to face him. There's someone standing beyond him and they're leaning up against a car and there's someone standing with them and you think the bleeding has stopped. But you don't know. And you don't care anymore.
He redoubles his efforts and comes back at you, snarling now, but the snarl has no danger in it, this is all a game. Right? People keep staring. When you held hands they wanted to kill you. The intrusion was unwarrented. The effects were instant. Going for the tactless, he tackles you and you feel something give and it's your balance and you go toppling back, heart pounding, the world flashing black and white. It's been forever. It's been half a minute. The unyielding metal of a car gets you in the back and you feel the breath leave your body and a thousand different ways to get out of this hold are flashing in your head and for some reason none of them are getting to your body. You keep flashing through everything you keep thinking of the car and her. And him. And her and him and her and you don't know why you can't stop thinking. And he's slammed up against you and you can feel his hot breath on your face and perhaps in another world you might have kissed him but you highly doubt it. Though you danced one time because there was nothing better to do. You enjoyed the previous dance better. And the reasons don't really matter and all your ability won't be able to help you.
And then you take your leg and ram it into his stomach and you feel his breath expel like something not unlike a balloon and even slow motion would be fast compared to this because it just takes so long so damn long. And you feel his release and you shove him back. You're both screaming. Forever is only thirty five seconds. His stomach is softer than you'd expect and he's falling back and you can't let him come toward and touch you again and your leg is snapping out and it's the old days again and all the old dreams when people didn't fight and people didn't hit other people. The first drop of blood from her face is finally hitting the hood of the car. Your voice is hoarse from silent screaming. And
your leg connects with a force that makes you sick and you feel something give, something hard and brittle and you hear something shift and you think my God I just broke a rib but you're not sure and he's staggering back against another car. You glance up at the lights to blind yourself, it's comforting in a way. Nothing should have ever happened like this. And he's staring at you with dispassion and anger and surprise and fear and anger and shock
but neither of you can stop now.
It's two trains heading on the track at the same time and nobody wants to stop. Because in a way you want this. You need this. The frustration builds up, all the words and the times and the lies and eventually it takes just one incident to make everything snap and fall to pieces. Even she would have wanted this. But not like this. It had to be stopped. Everyone might agree if they ever forgive you. If you ever let yourself out of here alive.
And those thoughts take two seconds. His breathing is heavier but he won't stop coming toward you and it's a roar and it's a snarl and it's pathetic and cathartic and you're no different. You want to think so but you're not, this battle if you want to call it that is
being played out in a thousand different places by a thousand different people. The scuffling and shuffling of your feet on the pavement is the rhythm of your lives, the air is the center and one life just isn't enough to experience it all. You've wanted this for too long, you've sat there for too long and listened to the stories told by a close bystander and you can't stand there anymore and watch it, everything leads to the one moment and you always hope that it's momentous and important and in the end it turns out to be nothing more than a spectacle and it never lasts long enough and you don't know what happens until it's over. And it just takes one little moment to start it all again, and eventually you just can't take it anymore. He's still running at you and his steps are slow and his breathing matches the roaring in your heart and you don't know what to do and you have to end this and you don't have a choice anymore.
And you hit him. The feel of your hand striking his face, bone on bone on flesh and it's oddly satisifying and the sense of horror that it evokes make you want to throw up everything you've ever eaten because you never knew it'd be like this, all the training and all the moments and all the planning didn't tell you a damn thing. She taught you that, he did they all did they told you didn't they. They told you how it was going to end. And he gets one sure moment of surprise before your hand is covering his face and you can't stop and the scream that was silent before isn't so silent now and they're both staring at you and the second drop of blood is striking the car and making a semi circle with the first and if you get three more that'll make the Olympic ring and you don't care anymore because the most imporant people in your life keep getting hurt. And the lights are turning on in the buildings and the eyes are watching as you echo off the tiny canyons and your hand feels numb and slick and the feeling is lonliness and fear and everything all rolled into this knot that decides it wants to sit in the pit of your stomach and growl and squirm.
You have to stop eventually. Because you glance up and you see the look of horror and fear and in one face you might something buried that means admiration but all you can see is blood and you look down at your hands and it's all over you and he's moaning and you wonder why you didn't stop. Why someone didn't make you stop. Why you couldn't pull. And you're staggering away, feet barely touching, screaming some and you feel your insides erupting and your face feels wet and you trip and fall into a car and it might be yours and who gives a damn anymore. And you feel her there and you can feel eyes on you and you're leaning on the car trying not to care and blood is running down your hands and tears are streaking your face and snot cakes in your nose, in the still air, in the quiet night and you're shaking and you don't know why and you keep screaming damn you goddamn you just damn goddamn you over and over again in a hiccuping hoarse
voice and there's a hand on you and the world is all away from you. And you've never been this alone. And you think it had to be done. And there's blood all over your hands. Goddamn you, you keep saying. Just goddamn.
Everything's different now.