Chapter 2
The cage was exactly that. A solid construction of metal poles and beams covered with layers of chain link and on the outside, rows of barbed wire. It kept the crowd, thirsty and screaming for blood, on the outside and the fighters in. There was no escape until that tiny chain link door that men had to duck to get through was opened.
Dallas was ready. He was fucking ready.
He drowned it all out. Disappeared inside that aching, wounded part of himself where he felt nothing but black, broiling rage. The rest of the time he numbed it out. He had to in order to get through his life. He’d be nothing but a pit of hatred otherwise.
He ripped that bandage off the open wound and felt the lacerations of his heart. He let that bleeding leak through into his soul, take him under, into a world where he was nothing, not a person, not a body. He felt no pain. He transcended the physical and went to another place, a place of focus, a place of raw strength. He became a fighter.
He drowned out the men screaming, chanting, spoiling for a fight. He barely registered his opponent. The man was indeed a giant, the meanest looking, tattooed, rough bastard that Dallas had ever seen. He was run by one of Roman Ricci’s rivals. The fight was a huge one. There was certainly more than just their lives riding on the line.
Roman Ricci would be an even richer man after the fight.
Dallas slammed his fists together. He stared at a jagged scar that ran down his opponent’s temple to his jaw. It looked like an old knife wound and Dallas was willing to bet his life that wherever the guy had come from, it was a hell of a lot rougher a place than he himself had.
He didn’t feel sorry for the guy. He couldn’t. Everyone who signed up knew what they were getting into. Or at least, they were led to believe that they knew it. They knew the risks, at any rate. For most of them, the risk was worth the reward. Even death at the hands of another fighter was preferable to a life living on the streets, a life of painful obscurity in a society that condemned them to the dregs, the wasted humanity.
There was no ref. The fights were anything but fair. Anything went.
Dallas had no instructions. There were no rounds. The fight lasted until one man killed the other or knocked the other out. It was left up to the fighter himself and whatever was between him and the man running him.
He was there to fight and from the minute it started, he did. He let his opponent circle him, the man’s eyes glassed over with his own rage and adrenaline. Dallas dodged a few blows and just like he said he would, he never let the bastard draw blood.
His father was there once more, taunting him, mocking him, beating him, the blows, the rage, the drunken, fetid breath, his mother’s screams, it was all there, all with him, repeating in a never ending cycle of agony. He spiraled out of control, became little more than a damn beast as he exploded and splintered into a thousand fractional pieces. Dallas struck out, his fists connecting in a series of wicked blows the other man never saw coming since he was off balance from his own swinging fists. The first hit stunned him, the second, third and fourth, all landed in quick succession. The fifth, sixth and seventh, sent the man to his knees.
He was on him then, landing blow after blow, beating the man’s face into a bloody pulp before his sanity returned. White light burst in his head, so bright it was both violently painful and utterly blinding.
Dallas stumbled back. The roar of the crowd was like a freight train in his ears. He slammed back into his body and stared at the man on the concrete floor. The guy’s face was a mess. Bloodied pulp, his features contorted, a barely living thing.
Breath. Check him. Dallas bent and ran his bloodied knuckles under the man’s nose and sighed in relief. He’s still breathing. He fell to his knees, stunned. He’d never wanted to become his father. He never wanted to unleash the violence inside of himself and lose himself to it. He’d come so close… he’d promised himself that he would never harm another man. Never kill. Ever. That wasn’t him. That wasn’t what he’d signed up for and if he hadn’t crashed back into himself when he did, returned from whatever wasteland he stumbled into, he could easily have hammered his opponent into oblivion.
There was no more time to think on it. The fight was stopped, the crowd was wild. Men, Ricci’s goons, packing heat and dressed in black, entered the ring, threw a black robe over him and ushered him out of the cage. The crowd parted way, though not those lucky enough to stand close could get a second long gawk at the blood spattered man parting them down the middle.
Del was back in the locker room. Dallas had a feeling the man never left. He took one look at him, the heaving shoulders, the blood spattered face, his hands, still dripping metallic red, and nodded once.
“You’ll do, I suppose.”
It wasn’t praise. Dallas didn’t need praise. He needed to succeed. Fight after fight, night after night, however long it took, he’d make it through until he stumbled out the other side. He didn’t know what kind of man he’d be, but there wasn’t much of his soul to lose that hadn’t already been given away. If he was lucky he’d keep his humanity. If he was lucky, he’d enter a life, a changed life, a life where he might find the elusive redemption.
Peace.
The word echoed through his head, bouncing through his skull before it leached into his bloodstream and entered his battle weary soul. Peace. It was all he’d ever truly wanted. Love. It wasn’t a word he truly knew the meaning of. Not since he’d lost his mother all those years ago as a child. If he thought he had a chance in hell at it, he’d take it too.
Until then, he’d keep fighting. He’d stay alive. He’d survive. He’d be a fighter, because it was what he had to be.
The End