A hard punch connects with my jaw, swinging my head to the side. I growl as blood spurts across the arena. I turn my head back slowly and glare at the opponent. He’s bouncing around, like he’s some sort of fucking boxer. Baring my teeth, I dodge his next punch. I’ve let him get a few in, let people throw a few bets around, let them think he might be in for a chance.

He fucking isn’t.

The anger inside me tonight, it’s out of this world.

I’m sick of being blamed for everything.

I’m sick of the guilt.

I’m sick of letting everyone down with every choice I make.

They think I’m the bad guy, but I’ve suffered just as much.

So fuck them.

Fuck them all.

I take a few more hits, and they only make me angrier. The crowd screams at me to fight back, they’re yelling abuse, names, and I take it. And when my anger finally explodes, with a punch that nearly knocks me out, I finally take my turn. I spin around, driving my fist into the man’s face, sending him flying backward.

And then, I fight.

Oh, do I fucking fight.

My vision turns an ugly shade of red, and the anger I’ve had built up for so long just explodes out, like fucking vomit. I punch, kick, head-butt, over and over. The crowd is screaming. Someone is yelling my name, but I don’t stop. Because fuck them. They don’t know what I’ve endured for them. So much fucking pain.

“Lincoln!”

I keep fighting. Keep beating. Keep punching.

“Stop!”

Someone is behind me. I spin around, taking another punch, and it connects with a familiar face. Slater is in the ring. He’s panting, staring at me, blood trickling from his nose. “Stop,” he growls. “Lincoln, stop.”

“Fuck you, Slater.” I spit blood onto the ground. “Fuck you.”

“You want to get it out. Take it out on me. Don’t you take it out on another person.”

I look behind me, at the man on the floor. I blink, once, twice. He’s out cold. Fuck. There is blood all over his face, I did a number on him. I look back to Slater, he’s clenching his fists, legs apart. He wants to fight me.

“You don’t want to fight me, Slater.”

“Don’t I?” he growls.

“No, you don’t.”

“I think I do,” he says, stepping forward just as the other man is dragged away. The crowd goes wild. The idea of Slater and I fighting. Money is getting thrown around, names getting called out. Yeah, they want this.

I don’t.

It won’t end well. I have too much pent-up anger, and so does Slater.

“Slater,” I warn, stepping back.

The crowd screams.

“You want to fight, Lincoln. I can see it in your eyes. You’re angry. I’m angry. We’ve both been angry for a long fuckin’ time. You just won’t admit it. I saw what you did to that man; deep down, I know part of you wishes it was me.”

I grit my teeth. “Back off.”

“No,” he growls, clenching his fists tighter, getting nose to nose with me. “Because I’m sick and tired of the way you run around here, actin’ like we have to do what you want still. We fuckin’ don’t, Lincoln. We’re grown ass men. And last time we let you lead, you got Ellie taken from me.”

That’s like a god damned punch to the heart. And he knows it. He knows how much those words hurt. He knows that he’s crushing me with every passing second when he opens his mouth. But that’s why he’s doing it. He wants me to hurt. He wants me to get angry. And he knows that’s the one thing that’ll sting.

Because I’ve lived with that guilt for a fucking long time.

I watched my brother sink, knowing it was my fault.

“What do you want from me, Slater?” I growl, clenching my bloodied fists. “Do you want me to fuckin’ admit that I am the reason for your pain? Do you want to make me suffer for the rest of my fuckin’ days for that mistake? I know what I did. I fuckin’ know. I live with it. I’m sorry for it.”

“No. I don’t want that. I want you to face it. The anger. The pain. Get it out and let it go. Because you’re not lettin’ it go. You’re hangin’ on with both hands. You’re tryin’ to control our lives, because you have fuck-all control over yours.”

“Back off,” I hiss.

“Fuckin’ make me, Lincoln. I’m not steppin’ out of here, not until this is sorted, one way or another. Now, you can either stand here and we can talk about it. Or you can man the fuck up, and fight me. Like I know you fuckin’ want to. Like you know I want to.”

“I said,” I snarl, anger bubbling to the surface, “back off.”

“And I said,” he hisses, getting even closer, “fuckin’ make me.”

I shove him, hard. The wild anger inside me exploding and rushing out of my body like a fucking rage demon. I make an angry sound in my throat, and then I fight my brother, just like he wants. I raise my fist, and I smash it into his face, hitting his cheek and sending his head swinging to the side. The crowd goes wild. And it only makes me angrier. Damn him for pushing me. Damn him.

“That the best you’ve got,” he barks when he looks back to me, blood dripping from his chin. “How fuckin’ sad.”

He swings, and I duck, anticipating it. We circle each other, panting, angry, fists clenched. I swing again, and he too ducks, missing it, and then he swings, catching me off guard. He uppercuts my jaw, sending me stumbling backward with an angry bellow.

And then it’s on.

Oh, fuck, is it on.

I’m so fucking angry I charge at him, slamming my body into his middle, and we explode. Years of pent-up anger, frustration, guilt, sadness—all of it explodes forth as we collide. We hit the floor tangled together with such force the wind is knocked out of me. He’s punching, I’m punching, we’re doing anything we can to make the other one hurt.

“I fuckin’ hate you, Lincoln,” Slater roars, grabbing my throat and squeezing tight. “I lost her for ten years because of you.”

“You can’t hate me more than I hate myself,” I snarl, driving my knee up and slamming him in the gut.

He rolls off and I flip over, pinning him down.

“You have done nothing but control us all this time, because you’re so fuckin’ afraid to let go.”

“Fuck you,” I bark, driving my fist into his face, over and over.

He roars in pain and tosses me off, and then we’re both on our feet again, blood dripping from our faces, my vision blurring from the blood filling my eyes.

“You were supposed to take care of us,” Slater growls. “Our big brother. The only thing we had.”

“Yeah, Slater,” I roar, “and who the fuck was takin’ care of me when I was holdin’ the world up with my fuckin’ shoulders so it didn’t drop onto you?”

He looks stunned by this, and for a second, he pauses, hesitates.

“You could have come to me,” he hisses. “Could have fuckin’ told me how bad things were.”

“You just told me I was supposed to take care of you, and now you’re tellin’ me I should have come to you. What the fuck did you want from me? I did the best I fuckin’ could. You know, you fuckin’ know I’d never let anything happen to Ellie on purpose. You know what that did to me. But it’s on you, too. Fuck me, you fucked up, too. You were a huge part of the reason she got taken.”

He throws a punch, narrowly missing me.

We’re both panting.

Both angry.

Both ready for this to be fucking over. Forever.

“I know!” he bellows, clenching his fists and swinging rapidly, over and over, hitting me a few times, but mostly missing because I dodge them.

My face aches.

My body aches.

My hands ache.

I’ve had enough.

I stop fighting.

I drop my hands, and say, “If you want to hurt me, Slater. Hurt me. I deserve it. Because I am sorry, you think I say it and I don’t mean it, but I do, I do fuckin’ mean it. With every single inch of my body, my heart, my soul, I mean it. I fucked up. I didn’t do it intentionally, but I did it all the same. I can’t take that back. Fuck, I wish I could, do you have any idea how much I wish I could. But, what’s done is done, and for what it’s worth, from the very bottom of my heart, I’m sorry. So fuckin’ sorry.”

He pauses, fist midair, ready to throw at me, but at my words, he lowers it. And then, he steps forward, and I brace for an attack, but he doesn’t give me one. He grabs my shoulders, and then jerks me close to him, hugging me.

Through everything, Slater and I never hugged. Hell, we were both too proud.

But, not now.

Now, it’s time to let it go.

“I’m sorry too, Lincoln.”

Fuck.

I give him a hard, rough hug and then step back.

“Gotta move forward,” I tell him.

“Yeah,” he nods. “Gotta move forward.”

And just like that, we leave the past exactly where it belongs.

In the fucking past.