Okay, you didn't really win. No one did. But you didn't lose and that's important to remember. You did okay, you stood your ground like you were taught to, and after the longest fifteen minutes of your life, you were the one [barely] standing [covered in your own blood] with a smile on your face.
Your friends set this fight up. It wasn't in the street, outside a bar, or at a party. You were in a basement. The floor was covered in cardboard [they called this "padding" just in case you fell] and it smelt like stale sweat and dried blood. The air was thick with the taste of iron or pennies or something metal and you knew, you just knew you had the air of someone else's blood in your mouth.
You felt scared and afraid. You had -- and still have -- a small frame. And the guy you were fighting was larger than you. Significantly larger than you, remember? He had one hundred pounds on you. But your friends told you, you're faster than this giant asshole, you're lean and quick [they were just trying to make you feel better, you were only kind of, sort of, probably, maybe, faster than this guy].
But you went through with it anyway. You took off your shirt, he took off his, you took off your boots, he took off his sneakers. You hopped and pranced around like an idiot, you put your fists in front of your face and smiled [you smile a lot when you fight, I don't know if you noticed this].
You jabbed him a couple times. Twisted your hips in a fashion that would make people think you knew how to dance. Actually, you were dancing. And it was a brilliant dance. The slap of skin against skin. The way your knuckles imprinted into his sides made you feel like you were giving him tattoos. He'd grimace and groan and you'd keep smiling.
You shoved him up against a wall while you laughed, the smell of his sweat entered your nose, and you made a joke about it to yourself in your head. You leaned back and shot your forehead into his chin like a rocket. It was like you were made of metal and steel, you could not be broken. You felt untouchable, invincible, deadly, you were Tyler fucking Durden.
That is, until he punched you in the face.
You staggered back and grabbed your jaw. There was a cut under your eye [good thing it didn't leave a scar] and you tasted your own blood. It was thick with regret and fear. You were scared again. You stepped back and wiped the blood from your face but before you could recompose yourself, you got hit in the stomach, then the chin, then the stomach.
He was the conductor, and you? You were the orchestra. You hit each note of pain at the right time. You were his drum roll and he was Neil Peart. You were Foreman, he was Ali.
You laid on the ground for what felt like forever and it was exactly like that scene from Snatch [you just watched the movie]. You were in water and had trouble moving back to your body. You watched as your friends looked on with concern [although, one of them was laughing, you aren't friends with him anymore]. You watched as your opponent laid kicks into your abdomen and you felt weird because you didn't really feel it anymore.
Then something inside you woke up, the same way it woke up for Brad Pitt in the scene. You lunged back into your body and threw a punch as you stood. Your right hand went into the wall behind him. You [fucking] missed and probably broke your hand in the process.
The pain rang in your ears and shot up through the bones in your hand into your spine. You screamed. Your opponent called you an idiot and started laughing at you as you tried to shake the bones back into place. You whipped your hand up and down and up and down like it would do something.
You looked at your friends and one of them gave you a look that said, "maybe we should call it?" You shook your head in a way that said "Fuck you. I'm going to kill this guy."
A song lyric played in your head. It comes on about halfway through the song and that's where it started for you:
One hand is broken and the other needs a break.
The break he's referring to in the song wasn't the break you were about to give this large, monster of a man that just moved faster than you and you were angry. Mad. Enraged. Fucking insane. You watched him laugh in slow-motion. His stomach rippled with each cackle and you, covered in your blood, smiled.
You whipped your hand across his face at a lightning speed and he fell down. Hard. The basement shook and so did everyone watching. Their jaws dropped to the floor harder than the man and you, you were still smiling. You fell to your knees and as your friends picked you up off the ground, you spit on the guy still trying to fix the mess you made of his brain.
Do you remember what you said? To your best friend? I know you remember. You said:
That's the last fucking time I'm going to fight anyone.