Violent

It was a sea of red inside his head. Only anger was left to him. Nothing appeased him. Nobody could get to him. He hated it all. This way of living wasn’t for him. There was no use for men like him. No use for somebody that can break and hurt. They wanted innovators, followers, and thinkers. He was nothing but a jumble of pain, power, speed, and violence. His heart burned with a fury; a fury that came to him unbidden. He did not push it away. He liked the way it felt. The way it made his hands tingle and tighten into fists. The way his feet dance and patted on the ground. The way his body tensed up like an animal ready to pounce.

He gnashed his teeth and rubbed his head against a wooden fence. There was nobody in the alley but him. His feet pushed and stomped on the dirt and gravel ground. Stars dotted the moonless sky. At night, the town would become completely dark. A working town, a town where all activity ceased when the sun went down. Nights here were for the careless, the free, the partiers, the addicts, and the troubled. You’d find no man or woman with a purpose or responsibility trailing the streets or mashing their fists against brick and wooden walls.

His body burned. His teeth were grinding against one another. His fingers felt weak, and he strained to straighten them. Balled into fists felt better. Balled into fists they felt natural. His eyes were closed shut. Thoughts of fights fluttered into his heads. Thoughts of legendary fights that could never be. Not in this society.

They had told him he was mad. A mad dog, who bit everyone and followed no one. A lone, stray mutt who didn’t trust a soul. His fangs were always borne, and he did not understand a thing because he did not want to. He chose not to. He kept his distance and whenever some fool tried to approach. He’d lash out. He’d bark but words were never much use to him. So, he pounces his paws would bruise the ones that thought they could reach him. His fangs would tear their skin and his power would break their bones.

His parents had tried to stick him into gyms. His energy was a problem, and they needed a way to siphon it. An outlet for the boy to let it all out. He was a problem in any public setting Too many walked around with their heads held high. Too many people that thought they were above others. Too many people that shunned and hated what they didn’t understand. So, he hated them right back. He did not need anyone, is what he always thought. Alone, a man can do what he wanted. Alone, a man only has to worry about their strength. Still, he cared. Not about image or popularity. But he found that he wasn’t so cold hearted.

He cared about people. He actually cared about others’ feelings. When bastards sought to make trouble for others, he’d step in. When bastards sought to bring others down, he’d step in. And he’d step in with punches flying. At the age of six, a ten-year-old was pushing around some skinny kid. At the age of six, he broke that ten-year-old’s nose and made him piss his pants. At the age of twelve, he attacked a group of people he claimed were assholes. All they did was laugh and joke to themselves about some kid in his class. He didn’t know her but he was angry at them all the same. He hated that he cared but he liked the anger he got. The anger that came with caring. He liked the responses he’d received when people heard he was sticking up for others. He did not like, however, when rules were introduced into fighting.

All he knew about fighting was savagery. So, when his parents stuck him into a boxing gym. He did not understand. Mercy? What was that? He understood how to move, how to punch, and how to defend. He understood how to break his opponent’s guard, how to corner them, and how to hurt them. He did not understand when to stop. He had been tossed out of the gym. Not before an older member tried to teach him a lesson. That member ended up puking on the canvas. He had only been thirteen at the time, the member was sixteen and had thirty fights in the amateur circuit. It was nothing to him. To him, fighting was second nature. Everyone in that gym he had sparred against had fought some number of fights. But he had fought more than any of them. Still, he was kicked out.

He was strong. Why did they kick him out? He was a good fighter. Everyone was slow to him and easy to tear apart. Why did the coaches curse him? Why did his parents have to apologize? Not understanding made him angry. A couple weeks later the gym had all of its windows broken by some unknown vandal.

The next gym his parent’s put him in was a Muay Thai gym. He had loved it there, his instructor was an old, wrinkled man. With leathery skin and with two pink scars on his face. He liked looking at them. One went over his lips and the other up along his cheek. The old man was hard on him. He had asked his instructor once why he was always so demanding and strict with him. The instructor said to him in his raspy, English voice deeply coated with a Thai accent, “You are strong. But you have no discipline.”

He did not understand. Discipline? What is that? Further talk with his instructor revealed the answer to his question. He had no order. No self-control. He could stick to the toughest training regime and strict diets, but he had no control over his anger. What do other people do when they get angry? He had wondered that for a very long time. His instructor, whenever he got mad, would go outside and find a quiet place to calm down. He’d focus and close his eyes. He’d get comfortable and relax.

He had liked his instructor. More than he liked his own farther. His instructor had taught him how to punch better than when he was boxing. His instructor had taught him how to throw kicks. His instructor taught him how to grapple, throw elbows, and to use his knees. He was only fifteen, but his skills were far greater than any of the longer members of the gym. He wanted to pursue a life of professional fighting. Until the day of his first defeat.

He had been walking home after school. Crossing through an alley just like the one he was in tonight. When a group of boys approached from the front and back. He remembered some of them. Five of them. Five had been boys he had crushed under his violent nature. They had brought others with them this time. Eight were behind him and nine in front of him. His body had never shaken with so much vigor before. His fingers couldn’t stop moving so he clenched his fists. His feet, oh how his feet had wanted to dance. And dance he did. Before they could talk. Before they could tell him why he was getting jumped. He was already on them. He kicked one in the gut. Another caught the tip of his elbow. He broke the nose of one boy with his knee. Two were met by a furious onslaught of punches. Another was treated like a punching bag. One tall bastard received so many legs kicks he fell to his knees before him. But there were too many. Some were bigger. Some were older. They eventually brought him to the ground and stomped him out.

He was left battered, bleeding, and unconscious. He woke up to a stranger shaking him awake. There was a woman next to him talking frantically to someone. He went back to sleep and woke up again in an ambulance. Then he woke up again in a hospital. His mom was sleeping beside him and his dad was watching the television. When he returned to the gym. His instructor reprimanded him for losing. He spent the next two weeks doing a grueling training regimen. After the two weeks, his instructor invited him over to his home.

It was a two-story, old home with a clean, grassy front yard. The instructor led him to the backyard which was just a dirt lot. There was a post with a bag hanging from it, a doghouse with a muscular, black hound sleeping in it chained to a post, and a mat laid on the flat dirt ground. His instructor proceeded to teach him how to fight. How to truly fight. This style of fighting was not for sport. It was a style of fighting used to survive. Used to kill. Attacks to the genitals, eyes, neck, and other sensitive areas were repeatedly taught to him and often beaten into him. The old man was not as strong as he might have been when he was younger. But his body knew how to move, and his eyes didn’t miss a thing. Still, his strikes were gentle. A blow to the groin or to the neck didn’t hurt as badly as it should’ve.

They spent a month back there practicing. After the month was over the old man told him to go and win. So he did. It was tricky getting all of his assailants together, but he managed it somehow. Through various insults, coercion, and false messages he got them all in an empty lot. Five were beaten bloody. Three had suffered damage to their genitals. Damages that would heal but would give them excruciating pain until they did. Four had broken ribs. One had his wrist broken and another his arm. Two had multiple teeth broken. And one was bleeding internally.

When they were all moaning and groaning on the ground, he found himself unable to leave them. Unable to run away and hide. He took a phone from one of their pockets and called emergency services. He was arrested but all of the boys he had beaten healed and lived. He would end up serving three years in a juvenile correctional facility. Having called the emergency services, himself and given himself up without a problem helped him in the legal proceedings. Ultimately, his actions and sentence had caused a huge turning point in his life. A year in behind bars, his instructor had passed away. After he left the facility, he was a month away from his birthday. His parents let him live with them, but they were cold. After his eighteenth birthday, he was thrown out.

He wandered. Going from one job to another. Going from one town to another. Raising hell wherever he went but inside the fire still burned. The fire to fight. But he didn’t just want to beat any fool in the street. He wanted the glory that came with fighting. His instructor had been a champion with a lengthy record. He saw the photos of his instructor with his belt and his large smile. Since that day, he had wanted that. He had wanted to know what it feels like to receive praise for your ability to beat the life out of someone. He wanted to show the world what he was good at. More importantly he wanted to fight someone strong.

Somebody that could quench the heat inside of him. Oh, how it burns. He smashed his head against the wooden fence once more. He gnashed his teeth and grunted. He pumped his fists against the wood, his knuckles burning after a while. Then he heard voices. Coming from up the alley. He didn’t open his eyes, but he listened. He listened to their feet stepping on gravel. He listened to their laughter. He listened to their voices.

Then he heard them stop before him. “Hey, you alright?” One of them, a man, asked him. He did not respond but he did stop writhing against the wall. He continued breathing heavily and clenching his teeth.

“Aye man. You good?” One of the men stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. He turned around and knocked the arm away. He wanted to pummel them. He wanted to break their faces but when he saw their eyes. The way they looked at him. Those feelings died away.

“I’m fine,” Jackson said to them and walked away.