I grinned at the exchange I just had with Danny. I enjoyed his company.
Having him around made my life easier. In our friendship, we took turns on who was responsible. Even though Danny is a good five years older than me, people wouldn't know it by how he behaved sometimes.
I peeled off my shirt, and I looked at myself in the mirror. I needed to lose
around ten pounds before my next fight. Did I even have ten pounds to lose? I was six feet tall with very little body fat. I pinched my belly and grabbed as much fat as I could get. I got a decent handful.
Okay, maybe I did have ten pounds to lose.
I studied my face. It was clean, with few marks and scars, not like some of the other professional fighters I knew. The ones who had been in it for a while usually sported knots, bumps, scars, broken noses, busted cheekbones, and more.
My face was remarkably unmarred, considering I had never said 'no' to a
fight in my life. I had been fighting off bullies since I was seven years old. My shiny blonde hair, as pretty as any girl's, had made me a target for bullies who called me names and took their shots at me, thinking that my angelic appearance translated into an easy target for beatings. In those years, I, the pretty boy, had to fight my way into Respectville by pummeling the neverending parade of bullies. I got so good at defending myself on the street that I turned it into my lifework. I was a natural growth from a much-picked-on kid into a professional fighter.
Nowadays, I looked more like a surfer than a mixed martial arts fighter.
People often misread my casual beach bum look and underestimated me. That was a good thing. Interestingly, there's something about the way I look that makes most guys want to start a fight with me. I don't know if it's the fact that I look as if I should be singing lead in a boy band or that I'm extremely confident.
Anyway, there's something about me that makes random strangers want to mix it up with me constantly!
Too bad for them.
An ex-girlfriend once asked me why I love to fight. My answer was simple:
Some guys were born to fix cars or play football. Some guys were born to be astronauts or to hit a fastball. I was born to fight. It's the only thing in this world that ever made perfect sense to me. When I'm in a fight, time stands still. I see everything in slow motion. My brain goes into Good Will Hunting mode, and I'm able to quickly determine what I want to do to inflict the most damage on my
opponent.
Anyway, I put on a pair of sweats, a t-shirt, and my running shoes. Once
done, I headed outside the house that Danny and I shared, and did some
stretching next to the tall sycamore tree in the front yard.
I was still stretching when I heard a familiar kee-eeeee-arr cry from above. I looked up, and there was Jane. Jane was a beautiful red hawk that seems to have developed a fondness for me over the past couple of years. She made herself known each day by crying her distinctive call or sometimes a shrill chwirk sound while flying low enough, so I could see her. I still have no idea where she came from or why she seemed so interested in me. I named her
Jane one day after watching an episode of The Avengers. She seemed to have a close look at the superwoman, so the name seemed to fit her.
"I'm off for a run, Jane; try to keep up with me."
I gave Jane a wink and took off running. The beautiful bird let out an
amicable loud chirp as I headed down the street. At first, I went fairly slow
with my run. Jane followed me for about a block or two and then pulled back.
I kicked up my heels and began to run at a faster pace. I quickly ran out of the neighborhood and headed for the main street. I liked running at the college. It was peaceful at night and, as long as I avoided campus police, I usually had no problems.
I turned left and headed down University Way toward the college. I could hear loud music, which meant that I was approaching the house. They always had a party going on, and this Thursday night was no different. Their frat house was a massive two-story white house that stood out
like a sore thumb in a neighborhood that was filled with smaller houses.
As I ran toward the house, I noticed that the party was in full swing. Animal House style, there were a lot of cars parked out front, and people milling around outside in various stages of dress, undress, and loudness, depending on how much alcohol they had consumed. Music thumped from the open front door, with the bass so loud that the people inside were sure to go deaf for a couple of days. I hurried past the house, so I wouldn't have to hear drunk frat boys yelling
out things like "Run, Forrest, run!
As I was about to pass the house incident, underneath the thumping hip-hop, I heard a chilling scream. The scream was so distinctive and piercing that it made me stop in my tracks.
I turned around, and as I did so, I heard it again. It was coming from behind the house. The gate was open, so I walked toward it. I thought it could just be college girls having a good time, but then I heard it for the third time. This time, it was louder and more uneasy.
As I neared the back gate, I saw movement in a window. A young, dark-haired woman wearing a black dress was desperately opening a window. I picked up my pace, running now. She wrenched up the window, looked over her shoulder, and then jumped from the upstairs window.
Holy shit.
She dropped behind some hedges, where I heard her scream and crash
through something wooden. She reappeared a moment later, limping badly and bleeding from fresh scratches along her face and elbows.
She and I reached the side gate about the same time. Amazingly, I recognized the girl. We had gone to high school together at Cambridge. She was one of those girls who had been into Goth and had kept to herself in an emo way. I saw that she was barefoot, and her black dress was torn at the right shoulder.