MARCO:
I threw a fist, and I felt his nose break, I threw another and he spat out drops of blood. PUNCH! PUNCH! I took out my rage on him, not giving him a chance to fight back, not even to breathe.
"Finish him! Finish him!" the men in the audience shouted.
And finishing him was what I did. PUNCH! PUNCH! Hook to the stomach, punch to the face, and my opponent tasted the sweat-soaked floor with scarlet stains.
I was shaken, but pleased.
I needed that, a good fight.
I heard cries of victory.
"Well done! Well done!"
I looked down and my opponent was unconscious. Had I killed him? I hoped not. The last thing I needed was for me to be involved in a death scandal in an illegal boxing match.
One night every week clandestine fights were organized in the basement of an old house in Barranca. Many men of all ages and social status came together to heal the wounds of their souls by inflicting physical wounds on others.
