The Mystery Fighter

The Mystery Fighter (1)

Are you kidding me?

I rolled my eyes at the man in front of me, delivering sloppy high-fives to his friends as he laughed at the horrible joke he had just made. How could anybody actually find that funny? If you are going to insult somebody, at least make it entertaining. I raised an eyebrow and tried waiting patiently for them to finish their giggling party at my expense. However, patience was not my forte.

"Are you done yet? 'Cause I have things to do and people to see, and your ass is standing in my way."

The man quickly sobered up at my words and confidently moved forward into the circle.

We were in a dark alley behind some obsolete shops, secluded from the lights and traffic from the streets around us. A group of rowdy people had formed a circle in the alley, cheering and betting on the two low-lives in the middle. Betting on me.

My mother's sickness was the reason I was here, currently blocking out the inappropriate whistles and words from the crowd as I locked my eyes on my opponent. Diagnosed with an illness unknown to the local doctor, we needed money to be able to get an appointment at one of the bigger hospitals in the neighboring city. It was safe to say that we had nowhere near the needed amount of cash.

Without a father to cover the expenses for the house, and with a mother bound to her bed by sickness, my seventeen-year-old self was in charge of the income. With little work opportunities for a girl without a finished education, the job options in this small town could not possibly provide the amount of money I needed to make in such a short period of time.

The local police in Range Lake may as well be nonexistent in the slum part of the town; making this the perfect place for street fighting, often hosted by smaller groups of 'gangs.' This was not a secret either, as the majority of the people watching and placing bets on the fighters were from the other side of the town, some even from neighbouring cities.

I was no stranger to the art of fighting. My father had taught me basic defense and attack moves from an early age. I only got better as I started to enter the somewhat organized fights on the streets at the age of fourteen. My speed, agility, and knowledge of where to hit were what had saved me the first times I had dared compete. To enter, one had to have a name to go by. By the time I had gathered enough nerve to actually enter my first match in the ring, there was little room to figure out a name for myself. I had entered the ring under the name Roxy, the name my father had wanted me to have when I was born. I had lost that fight, yet the name had stayed with me.

One year later, after having won and lost countless times, I slowly began to win more than I would lose, and my pseudonym quickly became recognized by the returning viewers in the audience.

Every person in the crowd around us waited intently as I looked my opponent over.

He was a fairly tall man, seemingly in his mid-twenties, with dark brown hair and startling green eyes. He seemed a little tipsy, probably from having a couple of drinks earlier. I almost smiled. It appeared this fight would be over quick.

I stood still, my fingers clenching and unclenching by my sides. He looked me over with a disgusting smirk on his face.

"How about we forget about this fighting stuff and I take you back to my place?" His eyes grew darker and his smirk widened as he looked me up and down. Sharp whistles arose from a couple of people in the audience, no doubt loving the man's demeaning behavior.

"How about I knock you out and send you to the hospital?" I replied, hearing some of the tipsier viewers laugh from the crowd. I dared a small smirk. Fights on the street weren't quite the same without these occasional verbal quarrels beforehand.

His smirk disappeared, replaced with a scowl.

"Come on! Show Zay how it's done," a new drunken voice yelled from the crowd to my opponent. The comment seemed to have the desired effect on the man, and he brought his hands up in front of him. It seemed he was ready.

He stepped forward and got ready to throw a left hook, but I saw it coming. Grabbing his arm before it hit me; I twisted it around, bent it behind his back and pushed him forward. He stumbled forward a few steps before straightening himself. Turning around, he threw me a deadly glare before bringing his foot up for a front kick. I quickly took his foot in my hands, twisted it so he lost his balance and threw him to the uneven, concrete ground. His attacks were predictable and slower than my usual opponents, making the fight unimpressive. It wasn't the challenge I had hoped for, but rather a cool down.

I continued playing around with the man, making sure that my kicks and punches were light enough so that they didn't leave him unconscious. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of the descending sun and decided to finish the fight.

Grabbing his arm, I stretched it out and twisted it at an odd angle. His cry of pain signaled the end of the battle.

Quickly, I grabbed the money from the dealer before stepping into the swarming pit of people around me. I could hear my fake name being called out by someone as I hurriedly continued down the alleyway. I made sure to not slow down my pace until I finally reached our house some twenty minutes later. 

Carefully closing the door behind me, I silently turned on the single lamp in the living room. My seven-year-old sister, Celine, was currently sleeping on the couch, curled up in some blankets. I placed the money in my pocket before gently lifting her in my arms and making my way to our room.

After tucking Celine in, I went to check on my mom across the hall. She had been ill for the pasttwo years, and it did not look like she was getting any better. She would rarely get up anymore and she was constantly hot, even when we would bring in the few fans we had or positioned her by the open window. The twinkle in her eyes had over the past months dimmed down into a dull void of tiredness that nothing in my possession could change.

The familiar feeling of helplessness tugged on my heart as I closed the window in her room, leaving the fans on either side of her bed to circulate the air. I checked her temperature, lightly squeezed her hand, and retreated to the door. The money in my pocket felt heavier than usual as I stared at my mother's small figure. A meager, more repressed part of me couldn't help but wonder if, by the time I did have enough money to send her to the hospital, there would be any life left to save.

I turned the shower on, washing away the sweat and tears that had begun to mingle together on my cheeks, and mentally planned the next day.

Groceries before school, I decided, drying my hair off with a nearby towel. I had been putting off spending money for far too long, and I knew Celine was in dire need of some bread and milk. I doubted the teachers would find it troublesome if I skipped my first classes tomorrow, anyway.

I snorted under my breath as I threw the towel over the hanger and reached for my pajamas. I sure didn't.