Page 7 of War Hope
Groaning,Iclenchmy jaw. I don't want her here. I don't want anyone fucking here. "Don’t you have somewhere to be?"
She smirks, her bright red lips curling at one corner. "Nope. I'm all yours." She walks into theapartmentand goes straight into my kitchen. I scowl and follow her. She's openingthe fridgeand goingthroughthe cupboards.
Istand in the doorway,staring at her. She'sbeen nagging me eversince Brandon died. I guess she thinks I need someone. I don't. Especially not her annoying arse. I walk to the couch and flop back, adjusting one of the pillows under my head and closing my eyes. "I'm going to sleep."
Ican feelher watching me. "You look like shit,” she says. “Youknow, you used to be hot. You need to eat...and sleep. Then maybe you wouldn't get your arse beat in a fight." I frown,refusingto open my eyes and acknowledge her. It may be childishbut I don't care. "And I'll just talk to myself because you're all mysterious and strong and silent."Icrackan eyelid and she'sglaringatme withher hands propped on her hips.
"Go away." I smile and close my eye again.
"Don't makeme go all ginger on you, Finn," she says, her voice trailingoff asshewalks away fromme.
God, I want to tellher to fuck off. I feelheatthreatening my cheeks and I take a deep breath, focusing onthe little shred ofhope I have that she'll fucking leave.
There's a seriesofbangs before the taps cut on and the microwave whirs to life. I groan.What the hell is she doing?I've been blatantly ignoring her for a while when theclinkof a dish being placed on the coffee table alerts me to her presence.
"Here.Food.Eat it, you ungrateful fuck."
Iwant to laugh, but I don't. I just keep my eyes closed and fake a snore. Hope groans, mumbling the word fuck and ungrateful over and over as I hear her head toward the door. The hinges creak before the door slams shut and then I open my eyes. There's a jacketpotato, cut open and steaming withgratedcheese melted over the top.I sit up, take the plate in my hand, and settle back on the couch before grabbing the remote and turning on the TV. Hope's nice. She means well. I just don't like people. I have my routine and she's not part of it. She’s too chaotic.
****Break****
The low mumbleof conversation fills the air.Larry’s twangy American accent echoes through the speakers: “You ladies and gents are in for a good time tonight, I tell ya.” The crowd cheers and he grins. “You’re gonna see one hell of a fight tonight…” He likes to rile them up and I like it when the crowd is riled up. It gives this static electricity to the place, the kind you can feel buzzing through the air, crackling. Fighting.Itmakes me feel grounded. It gives me an outlet for the rage, thehatethatconstantly cyclesthroughme.Sometimes Iwonder ifI wasalways like this,but I can't reallyremember.AllIrememberismy training. The war.Sniping outtargetaftertarget.Kill. Kill. Kill.I can still smell the gunfire, the scent of fuel that hung heavy in the air. Hears the screams of the other men—
"Finnthe IronFist West," LarryintroducesmeandI snapback to the moment, my bloodboiling withthoughts of war and carnage.I slip between the ropes. The crowd goes crazy the second I step into the ring.I glance outover the seaofdrunk men and women packed from wall to wall.ThePit is full and I smile at that thought. I love that people come here to watch me beat the fuck out of some other guy. They cheer for the blood, the violence, and I give it to them.It's fuckedupif you think about it.Theyshoutfor me topunchmy opponent harder, nail him in thegut. They wantpain...and so do I.I want to hurt this fuckerstanding across from me, fistinfront of his face as hebounceson his feet.I want to hurt him for the simple fact that I can, that I like how it feelswhenmy fist collides with his hard jaw.Here, in this ring, I can bea monster, a beast—and it makes mea hero.It is myoutlet. In some ways,it's the onlything that keepsall those other thoughts from eating me alive.
The bell dings and my mouth salivates at that blessed sound. I pull my fists up, my eyes glued to the bastard across from me as we dance a circle around one another. People shout. Women whistle. The guy's blue eyes swim withaggression,and he throws his first punch, hitting me square in the jaw. It stings and I hiss at the pain, my nostrils flaring before I swing at him. Adrenaline fires through me. I pound my fists against his face again and again, stunning him. He staggers back a few steps and his hands fall to his sides. He attempts to swing again and I duck, popping right back up and nailing him in the gut. He doubles over on a grunt. The crowd goes wild.Smiling, I throw one last punch and undercut his jaw. He falls like a tree. His body lands on the concrete, blood and spit flying from hismouth.
Larry claps as he shuffles between the ropes and walks to thecentreof the ring, grabbing my arm and lifting it up. "The winner: Finn the Iron Fist West." I nod, glancing out over the crowd before I turn and slip back through the ropes, already unwinding the tape from my wrists.
This is my life, instead of putting my daughter to bed right now, I'm wiping blood off my knuckles and walking out of a crowded basement full of gamblers and drunks. All I can wonder is why I had to fucking fail. Her. Brandon. Every-fucking-one.
