Meet me at three. Behind the school. In the alley. At the ice cream parlor. The places always change but it doesn't really matter where it is as long as there is a time and a fight to look forward too. My palms itch in anticipation and I lick my lips watching the digital clock. It seems that the numbers are stuck on 2:59 because it feels like hours and they never change. The meeting spot is less then two minutes walk but I never show up on time. I let them joke and boast about how they had scared me away but I always show up. Always throw the first punch. Always draw blood. Always win. Everyone knows and everyone wants to see whether or not they can beat me. Even people who have never fought in their lives and are actually "good" people want to fight me. Finally the numbers switch to 3:00 and I almost topple over the chair standing up so quickly.

"M'going out. Be back later." I mumble and grab my bag. Only the essentials: gauze, neosporin, and knives, if anyone wanted to get a little rougher then fists.

"When?" Mum asks, stirring her soup and avoiding my eyes. I glare at the back of her head and answer sternly,

"Late."


She looks up at me with a sad look on her face. She knows where I'm going and what I'm going to do but she doesn't have it in her to stop me. When I first started fighting I was doing it because I wanted to see if she cared. I wanted her to ground me or yell at me and tell me not to leave the house until I was forty. I didn't want her to listen to my stories and pretend to believe them. Then, after a few weeks, I couldn't stop. Fighting was my crack. It was an addiction and I loved the taste of blood.

Mum nods her head weakly and goes back to her soup. Zipping close my bag, I rush out of the small house and let the screen door slam behind me. Once I start running it doesn't take long to find the place that I'm looking for and I instantly hear sounds of laughter. A smirk forms on my face. They won't be laughing for long. My heart is beating fast and my breath comes out in smoky puffs from the chilled December air. I finally come out from behind the wall and reveal myself. Every one goes silent and backs away. I only fight one on one and the rest are there to watch, witness, and go tell others about me so that I have more to fight. Today's victim is named Cassie Greyliner.

Cassie may possibly be my hardest opponent. She's one of those girl's that can beat up every single guy in school and knows it. Her body is built for fighting and that's just how I like her. Her dark brown hair is pulled into a sloppy ponytail and she gives me a hard glare which I return in full. My fists clench upon seeing her. Just a few more seconds. To my surprise, she throws a punch around three seconds before I had predicted. I dodge her clenched fist and bury my own in her gut. She doubles over for a split second before making a quick recovery and shoving her elbow into the back of my neck. Pain sears through my neck as the muscle throbs from contact but I force up my head. My leg shoots up and catches her jaw. I feel the bone shift and I come back with a quick punch to completely dislocate it. She cries out in pain and glares at me with a new fire. This is where the fun begins. Cassie aims a kick at my ribs but I block with my arms. She hastily switches her method and grabs my exposed arm. Bad planning on my part, now she has my right arm. I sweep my leg over to catch onto hers but it's too late and she twists my arm back until there is a resounding crack echoing through the alley. Tears form in my bloodshot, blue eyes but I don't let any noise erupt from my throat and continue on with my leg sweep. Her knees buckle and I wrestle my now useless arm back from her grip. My heel makes contact with her nose and I grind into her face. Usually I don't let my anger affect my fighting but she just caused at least two weeks of me not being able to fight and that deserves punishment. Blood starts spewing from her now broken nose and I watch in victory as it leaks out from between her fingers that she has placed over her face in the last futile attempt to stop the bleeding. I turn my back assuming the fight is over and head over to my bag to touch up my lip, which is bleeding profoundly. A sharp, crippling pain shoots through my lower back and it takes everything in me not to cry out but I can't stop myself from crumbling to the ground. The pain momentarily blinds me and another hard kick is placed in my side. I stand up much too quickly and a metallic taste fills my mouth. I lean over, open my lips and watch as the blood spills out onto the dirty cement. Raising my eyes to Cassie, I see her smirk at me with blood dripping down her own chin. I take advantage of my position and ram towards her unsuspecting torso, the result is that I slam her up against the brick wall. She yells out a few choice swears and, before she can react, I grab her face and smash the back of her head against the wall again. And again. And again. She finally slumps forward and slides down the wall. I hawk up some mucus and spit the combination of mucus and blood at her passed out body.


Glaring for the last time at the whispering crowd, I grab my bag with my good arm and head home. My arm throbs painfully and I can see the outline of broken bone trying to push it's way through the stretched skin. As I walk slowly home I try to think of a good story. I know that Mum knows what really happened but I think it comforts her to hear a story that makes it look like her daughter isn't a criminal. As hard as I've become I still have a soft spot for Mum. I'm not going to end up on the streets because I want to support her. I will finish High School and college and make a good living for myself. Or at least, that's what I'll tell her I've done. To make her happy. I like when Mum is happy. But I can't give up fighting. I tell myself that I love it but there are times, like now, where I get a little sick of it and think to myself that maybe, just maybe, I should stop. I'm a straight A student, I'm not terrible looking, and I have an okay personality so it should be easy for me to make a living out in the real world and away from the fights. But I can't. There is still some part of me that wants her to tell me "No, not anymore. No fighting, Tracey. I know what you're doing when you go out and I want you to stop fighting." I know that she will never say that. I'm doomed to spend the rest of my life as a slave to, and waiting eagerly for, the next “meet me at three.”