Darcy88
01-31-2012, 05:03 PM
The rest of the class had left. Squared off on the black sweaty matts gleaming in the stark fluorescence were Darcy and Sean. Big and bearded, tall and tattooed, Sean advanced slow and inexorable as a tractor, fatal as time, as death. He tucked his chin and looked at Darcy with eyes cold and pitiless, like those of a gunner behind the slit of a tank. Darcy circled nimbly and with grace, confident, hope lightening his step.
Darcy fought then not against Sean but against himself, against his own weaknesses and shortcomings - his own shadow. He fought also against fate, against every hour spent at his wretched soul-stultifying job, against every missed opportunity, every romantic regret.
A feint, a lunge, a rattling jab and booming hook, Darcy hit him with all he had, snapping the mesmeric tension of the dance. He wheeled to the outside wearing a satisfied grin. But something wasn't right. Sean looked untouched, his posture as solid, his eyes as unfeeling, though he'd been twice struck flush.
A rage came over Darcy. Hate surged through his veins, fire flared in his cheeks. Again he feinted, again he lunged, this time connecting with a straight and an uppercut, before ending the attack with a precise and powerful knee.
Neither did this attack inflict any visible harm. Sean's massive form faced him implacable and unaffected, in dark demoralizing mockery. 'Damn him' thought Darcy as he darted in, delivering with desperate striving a kick to Sean's thigh and jab to his chin.
Nothing. Spit landing on a sidewalk, a chicken pecking at its pen.
And then Sean exploded. Darcy tried to sidestep the path of the punch but it landed with fine force and fury flush to his gut. Breathless, his lead arm turned to rubber, he stood before Sean as Paris before Achilles, this time doomed by a splintered bow. What came next, whether a single strike or a combination, Darcy never knew. Down he went, out cold, a David lying broken in the dust at Goliath's feet.
As he lay there he dreamt. He saw himself an old man, looking back on a life wasted, his soul wracked with regret....
His eyes opened some minutes later unto an amorphous blur that could have been Sean, could have been anything. A gruff unsympathetic voice somewhere spoke. "Get up you pussy. Let's go grab a beer."
In his daze Darcy managed to weakly mutter, "same time, next week."
And then he helped himself up.
Darcy fought then not against Sean but against himself, against his own weaknesses and shortcomings - his own shadow. He fought also against fate, against every hour spent at his wretched soul-stultifying job, against every missed opportunity, every romantic regret.
A feint, a lunge, a rattling jab and booming hook, Darcy hit him with all he had, snapping the mesmeric tension of the dance. He wheeled to the outside wearing a satisfied grin. But something wasn't right. Sean looked untouched, his posture as solid, his eyes as unfeeling, though he'd been twice struck flush.
A rage came over Darcy. Hate surged through his veins, fire flared in his cheeks. Again he feinted, again he lunged, this time connecting with a straight and an uppercut, before ending the attack with a precise and powerful knee.
Neither did this attack inflict any visible harm. Sean's massive form faced him implacable and unaffected, in dark demoralizing mockery. 'Damn him' thought Darcy as he darted in, delivering with desperate striving a kick to Sean's thigh and jab to his chin.
Nothing. Spit landing on a sidewalk, a chicken pecking at its pen.
And then Sean exploded. Darcy tried to sidestep the path of the punch but it landed with fine force and fury flush to his gut. Breathless, his lead arm turned to rubber, he stood before Sean as Paris before Achilles, this time doomed by a splintered bow. What came next, whether a single strike or a combination, Darcy never knew. Down he went, out cold, a David lying broken in the dust at Goliath's feet.
As he lay there he dreamt. He saw himself an old man, looking back on a life wasted, his soul wracked with regret....
His eyes opened some minutes later unto an amorphous blur that could have been Sean, could have been anything. A gruff unsympathetic voice somewhere spoke. "Get up you pussy. Let's go grab a beer."
In his daze Darcy managed to weakly mutter, "same time, next week."
And then he helped himself up.