Something I wrote for something, I dont remember what it was for, but here it is
The Rumble
By: Matthew DeFelice (Aka NejiKusa)
In the damp, moist, dark and foggy back alley ghetto, walks a man. Not just any man, but a fighter, a brawler. His dirty blonde hair lies still on his head, his tattered white clothing, sticky from sweet and blood, falls down on his peach chest. His bruises on his cold, emotionless face turn blue and the soars swell his eyes shut. His crimson colored knuckles are wrapped in a cloth that has been stained by the crimson wounds.
He opens a door that was made to be hidden from sight, as if it was meant to be a hangout for evil. Why would someone make a place like that? Was he evil? He walked in with these thoughts. The room is black, pitch black, but it won't be a place of darkness for long, for light consumes darkness.
The lights flicker on, blinding his swollen eyes. He winces at the pain that shoots through his head. The deafening cheers fill his pus filled ears, they love him but they give him no sympathy or break from the abuse as it slams his head over and over like a million sirens.
However; he lives for this moment. His entire life he has had hopes he could do this, at least for a little while. Until is ears burst, his eyes bled, until there was nothing left to give, but his willpower was still as strong as ever.
The shadow of death looms over his head. The bell rings. Dizzy and sick a massive gust of air blows past his maimed cheek. It is like getting hit with a sledgehammer. The brawler smashes into the wet, cement floor, teeth, and a mix of blood and spit flies out across the ground.
He tries to get up from the gray, hard earth that seems like a ship braving a storm. He is now on his knees, on his hands, the blow was too much for him. Another surge of white hot pain sends him sliding back a few feet. This time it was the side of his chest. Is this all he has to give? Has his willpower faded?
His burning rage consumes him. He keeps his eye on the prize. He stumbles to his feet, mimicking the moves of a drunk. His feet align, his muscles flex, his body is completely transformed, and his love for pain revives. Adrenaline rushes through his scared veins as he shoots off into the blinding light.
The thrill of the fight, the thirst to fight, cannot be quenched, at least to a man, a fighter, a brawler.
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