The Fight In You [18+]

1-The Broken Bird

When I was ten, I brought home a bird I had found in a ditch in front of my cousin's house. My father told me not to bring him in the house and when I asked him why, he told me that when the bird was healed, he would fly away when he was ready.

He was right. For days I watched over the bird, providing him with a shoebox home and an old scarf for a blanket with dried grass for a nest. I dug up worms for him to eat and used a dropper to give him water. And one morning I found the box empty. He had flown away and I missed it.

And it was like that when Colt came to live with us. My father was quite the boxer back in his day, winning some small time fights and making a name for himself in our town when I was very young. But that wasn't good enough for my mom. She left before I turned three.

My father raised me on his own and I later realized he gave up what could have been a successful boxing career to raise me. So instead of taking on title matches, my father opened a gym and dedicated himself to helping train other boxers. And he was good at it.

I spent a lot of time in his gym and I saw a lot of bloody cuts, broken noses, bruised ribs and split lips. At first, I couldn't take the sight of anyone hurt. It was like I could feel their pain. But the longer I hung around the gym, the more I felt needed.

Some of the guys laughed at me as a 12 year old with a first aid kit and ice packs, trying to tend to their wounds. Some of them wanted no part of it, deciding to take care of themselves. But that only made me want to care for them more.

After some first aid classes, I could set a broken bone in an emergency, use a defibrillator, close up most cuts, and manually realign a broken nose. I liked the feeling of being able to help people. I had found my calling. I wanted to be a nurse and study sports medicine.

The summer before my sophomore year of high school, I heard my father out in the garage talking to someone. I peeked through the partially open door that led out there and saw a battered boy slouched on a stool.

"So I don't suppose you want to tell me what happened?" my dad quizzed, narrowing his eyes at the kid.

He shrugged and glanced away. "I'm okay. I was only trying to get into the gym so I could get a shower. I wasn't trying to steal anything."

Dad crossed his arms over his still impressive chest and gave this kid a once over. Even at 45, my father, Charlie Armstrong was still in amazing shape. "I won't call the cops on you, kid, but I can't have you sleeping in the alley or trying to break my windows. You really don't have a place to go?"

He shook his head solemnly, dark brown wavy locks shaking over his forehead as his shoulders slumped. "My foster parents... they know my birthday is in a few weeks and the checks are gonna stop coming. I...I just don't wanna go back into the system. I'm almost aged out. I just need a little help until then."