start a fight [muke af]

iii

iii

Luke skidded down the stairs of his childhood home. He jumped the last two stairs, rounding the foyer and headed straight to the open kitchen. His mother was waiting, already having a serving of bacon and eggs laid upon their table.

"Good morning, Sweetie," she cheerfully said. Ms. Hemmings loved having Luke around, her face lit up when her youngest of three smiled back at her.

"Morning," he responded. Luke's voice was still hoarse from only being up for half an hour. His eyes were tired and he just wanted to go back to bed.

Work was an hour away, and he had to be at his post before 9. His six days of work take a toll on his mental health.

"I didn't get to see you last night, how was work?"

"Fine," he responded bitterly. He took a drink of the black coffee in a baby blue mug and slowly realized how much of a Mama's Boy he has become. All of his friends from high school are in college or have jobs far away. They aren't living in their parents house anymore. They're well into adulthoods with taxes and student loans and mortgages.

Luke hasn't even bought a car for himself yet—he's still using the one his parents got him on his seventeenth birthday.

Ms. Hemmings went up to her son, putting her hands on his collar. She fixed the buttons, making them look perfect and precise.

He moved away as she tried to re-slick his hair. Her manicured fingers ran through the blonde locks and messed it up more as he scooted in the opposite direction.

"Mom," he whined, his mouth half-full of breakfast.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," she scolded.

Luke rolled his eyes.

On the way to work, he was stopped at every red light. Even with The Killers blaring from his speakers, he still felt silence in his car. His mind was foggy in the morning, he wasn't ready to be awake before noon.

It was exhausting. Everything was exhausting.

He pulls into check in, hanging the back post his ID and badge. He relaxes back in his seat as the security thoroughly checks his information. He's been working at Las Vegas Prison for a little over a month, he knew the security and they knew him. Apparently, though, they still need to spend five minutes debating if his ID was real.

He found his parking spot and pulled in ten minutes until nine. He rested his head on the steering wheel as his ignition turned off. His music faded to a crisp silence as Luke closed his eyes. His all-highway drive didn't wake him up, at all.

He stretched out his body as he began stepping out. The Nevada air was already getting humid as the sun shone down upon his skin.

Luke swung his keys around his outstretched index finger. He had a whistle leaving his curled lips as he began unlocking gates, locking gates, and checking in. He shoved his bag into a locker, checking the safety on his gun in the bucket range.

He stood in the mirror in front of the closed locker room. He looked around, making sure no one was around. Luke looked at himself intently, from his big feet to his lack of muscle. He didn't like a lot about himself.

He liked his nose and he liked his eyes. He didn't like his body—his wide hips or broad shoulders. Luke figured that maybe he would like his body more if he trained harder, if he worked harder on building muscle.

It was hard for a 6'4" boy with a speedy metabolism.

Luke's radio went off, an officer asking for back up with a fight. He could hear the echo of other radios, then the quick echo of feet racing out the door.

Luke was pushing through, forced to lead the way to floor two. It was Luke's floor, and he knew it was Michael. He could just sense it. In the forty days Luke has been in the prison, Michael has started over a dozen fights. He had a thing for fighting, he had a thing for bloody knuckles.

Six officers—Luke included—ran into floor two, finding Michael and another inmate going at it. With ripped collars and bruised cheekbones.

Inmates were cheering them on, only egging them to fight more. A man taller than Luke delivered a punch harshly to Michael's stomach, but the blonde man didn't stutter, only swung harder.

Luke goes in with force, finding a formation with the other officers as they got in the middle. Two got in the direct middle, the others working on getting the large men off of each other.

Michael was panting and the darker inmate was, too. They stared at each other with pure anger and threw words of hate through the air.

Michael lunged forward, accidentally tackling Luke and delivering a punch to his cheek. He bit down on his tongue and kept himself for crying out in pain. Luke steadied himself, looking at the other man who was now cowering.

The room was silent as they realized Michael just punched an officer.

"Really?" Luke asked, stepping towards Michael.

"It was Barakat!" He yelled, pointing at the man he was fighting.

"Get them away!" Luke yelled, upset the two prisoners were still in front of him.

They were taken in cuffs in opposite directions, both struggling as if they were able to get out.

Luke wiped at his eye, glad blood didn't appear upon his rough hands. He exited the room, grabbing his clipboard and starting his morning count-in. Inside, he was crying.