The Elements of Rage | ?

"I want to love, but my hair smells of war and running and running."

• • •

The cord whipped through the air, the knot on the end weighing down the end. It slams into my back and tears through the soft skin. A scream erupts from my mouth as a fiery pain burns through me.

"Please," I beg, tears streaming down my face. "Please, stop. What did I do?"

Enrique growls, "Everything, you beast. You thought you could ask your brothers for food? News flash: No one will ever help you out. You don't deserve it."

He runs a quick hand over the cord, causing blood to splatter on my face. My blood. It decorates my tear-stained face and drips from the thin, open sounds on my back.

"Say it," He commands. "You don't deserve it."

A different kind of pain settles in the bottom of my stomach. The wild gleam in his dark eyes causes my dear and dread to increase.

"I don't deserve it," I choke out desperately.

"Deserve what?" Enrique asks with a smirk.

I sob, "Help. I don't deserve help."

"That's right, bitch," He snarls. "You are a toxic killer. You deserve nothing. No, you deserve worse than you get. You ought to be grateful, not asking for more, you greedy whore."

I flinch away from his words as if they are as painful as the rope digging into my skin.

With a satisfied and predatory grin, Enrique brings the cord down again. And again. And again. Continuing until he is tired of beating me.

Grunting, Enrique leans in close to me. I flinch but I am already curled up in a ball and pressed into the corner of the wall. I can't get any further away.

His hot breath fans over my face as Enrique promises, "If I ever catch you asking for help or accepting help again, I'll kill you."

• • •

"You don't deserve it," He hisses again, his voice echoing in my mind.

I shake my head, trying to empty it.

Adjusting my stance slightly, I raise my fists and focus on the opponent in front of me. He's blathering on about how I don't deserve the champion title. We'll see about that, now won't we?

The announcer begins to rule up the crowd. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and empty myself of all thoughts and feelings until I am empty. That emptiness is quickly replaced by rage. Hot, screaming rage.

The fight starts and I wait for my opponent, Steel, to make the first move. He tries to execute a roundhouse kick to my ribs.

Keyword being "tried."

A roundhouse kick, when done properly and with confidence, can generate the same amount of force as a baseball bat-around 480 pounds of force. However, when done incorrectly, they are completely ineffective.

Grabbing his leg, I pull him closer with one hand and throw a left cross to his jaw which I quickly follow up with a knee to his gut and a few jabs as he yanks his leg free from my vise-like grip.

As I expected, Steel stumbles back as I abruptly release his leg. I lodge my left foot into his stomach and use it as an anchor of sorts as I snap my right foot forward. My foot collided into the soft flesh on the underside of his jaw. He collapses to the ground, unconscious. I land, bending my knees to absorb the shock.