Behind These Refuge Walls

"Took a drop of the pure, To keep my heart from sinkin', That's an Irishman's cure, Whene'er he's on for drinking. To see the lasses smile, Laughing all the while, At my curious style, 'T would set your heart a-bubblin'..."

Gerard O'Donnell was born and raised in Ireland until the age of eighteen. He came from a poor family - a single mother forced to raise two girls and three boys out of nothing. And when you're raised with nothing to lose, there's little room for prejudice or standard, Gerry always says. His older brother died in a shootout on the streets of Dublin and his youngest sister passed away of tuberculoisis when Gerry was only ten. Second oldest of the family, Gerard took it on himself to protect his remaining sister and mother. So he learned to streetfight. Up until he was fourteen, he lagged behind the bigger fish, getting some money for being a helpful lad. Time passed, though, and said fish saw him for the strong youngster he was. So he was thrown in the ring, learned to steal, went on short trips to jail, did dirty jobs and brought home all the money he could.

His mother died soon after his siblings and left two children to fend for themselves.

Flora O'Donnell benefited of all the schooling her brother hadn't. Being smart, she soon found her way out of their damaged quarters and in to the spacey offices of Ireland's most sought after publishing companies. It was with her aid that Gerard fled from Ireland to the US. With the fighting skills and knowledge he had acquired over the years, he opened a gym for all the troubled teens who needed a way out of their daily chaos.

Modest, is all fourty six year old Gerard can be described as. Dedicated is another word. In many ways, I think Gerry is one of the people meant to present an ideal. He's that person you look up to, you applaud for being the way they are. He's that person who will make you feel like shit, because while he had to go to sleep without having eaten, you whine because those Pop-tarts were too bitter.

And he's a loving person. Four things Gerry has always loved: his sister, his students, beer and Irish songs. No bad mood could spoil those songs.

Which is why I was silent as the Irish man whistled the tune to another tune.

"One, two, Hunt the hare and turn her Down the rocky road And all the ways to Dublin, Whack-fol-lol-de-ra."

He sat on one of the benches closeby, thoughtfully watching every jab that hit the punching bag (I had taken up Max's notice for real). All my annoyance dissipated when I listened to Ger sing and tap his foot.

"Alright!" I finally exclaimed, pausing to catch as much oxygen as possible. "Who sings that?"

"Luke Kelly," he responded proudly, his thick Irish accent not failing to penetrate the dark clouds around me. "Oi, come here!"

Reluctantly, I passed two men who were in the process of explaining moves to one another. They gave me knowing smiles (Gerry had made it clear to everyone in the gym that I was his special case, a regular benefactor of his gym and not someone to piss off). Air whoosed out of my lungs once my ass hit the bench.

"Aye, mate?" I inquired, faking Irish roots.

"What do ya think 'bout that Cooperman boy? Givin' me a bloody load of headache, he is." I laughed lightly.

"He's like that. Max just wants to learn, Ger. He's not doing a great job, yeah, but don't toss him out. I'll do that, should he get on my nerves."

That got a chuckle out of the bearded man. He leaned with his elbows against his knees, his broad shoulders squared. He was a buff man, Gerard, even though time had taken its toll on him. Tired as he was deep inside, he always kept his body fit and ready to fight. Shit, Gerry was an old boxer built like a damn fridge.

We fell in silence and watched a few new students attack their instructors. Gerry's gym business being pretty big, he had his employees. That didn't stop him from spending his days around, occasionally practicing with me.

"Ye seem troubled. What's on yer mind, Charlie?"

I almost grinned. Everytime he said my name, it came out in that weird Irish sound-mutilation, as Gerry put it, and sounded like 'Charl-eh'. Funny, I actually thought it was neat. But my good mood vanished once I thought of answers for his question.

"Do you ever regret leaving the arena?" The question was as stupid as it was simple.

Gerry stilled. He pressed his back against the wall behind us. His eyes narrowed, then the frown disappeared in the face of pained remembrance. Moving to the US meant giving up his life in Dublin.

"I don't regret it," he finally said. "I'd like to do it again, tho'...but not under those circumstances." Not while his family starved and died.

He rubbed his chin - I noticed he'd been allowing his beard to grow lately. The bristle on his chin showed small spots of white, unlike his short brown hair.

"You're growing a beard?" I had asked him a few days before.

"Aye. It's for the ladies, kid."

Doubtless, he was charming. He had that rough looking aspect. Gerry looked in his fourties, but at the same time seemed a lot younger. He had brillant physique, too, so I often wondered why he was still a single lad.

"I miss it," I confessed. Like I didn't miss my family, I missed the Underground.

Gerry sighed loudly, then shook his head and clasped a large hand on my shoulder - the latter was like a rubber duck in his grip.

"We shouldn't feel guilty about our passions, lass. But ye know what I think 'bout goin' back."

Yes, I knew.

He stood up, stretched his arms and dragged me for another fifty push-ups. I followed, faithful to him as always, still holding on to him like two comrades.

The community at large will classify us as 'those who overcame their vices'. Because to them, mixed martial arts falls under the category of 'vices'. They'll say we woke up and stopped acting like brainless, cocky idiots who aren't smart enough to do anything else. They'll say 'You must be relieved that you got away from that world!'. We're not. Nor will we ever be.

I can't speak for all the retired fighters, but I can speak of myself. Leaving the arena was worse than leaving my home. Along with that familiar setting, I left behind a passion. Fighting is a part of me and I'll never change my mind about that. It is who I grew up to be and just as well as other people like to write articles for their school newspaper, I like to get engaged in a fight, confined by steel net. Fighting's not the only thing it's all about. I knew people - people who, when given a good reason, proved to be loyal until the end. I had a little spot in that crowd.

I hated giving that up, but most importantly, I hated my parents for forcing me to give it up. So I punished them just the way they punished me. They took me away from the arena, leaving me alone; I took Nathan and moved to Orlando, leaving them on their own. I doubt they ever realized my intentions.

"Hey, Ger." My tone reached that peak of a person who has reached illumination. Gerard turned my way, a question lingering between us. "You've been going pretty easy on me lately." That was a lie, more or less. "So...how come you haven't put me in combat lately?"

Usually, fifteen minutes of Gerry's trainings had you dropping to the ground and asking God what you had done wrong in life. Trainings did not consist of simple push ups and strength challenges. Eighty percent of the practice consisted of fighting other people. That was training. Having said that, it was quite a shocker that Gerry had left me hanging in front of a punching bag. I was growing tired and absolutely bored of it.

"Just giving ye some time to settle down, lass," was his half-shrugged reply. He viewed the gym with a critical frown. A class of rookies was gathering up. Assuming this was Gerry's next assignment, I tagged along. The group consisted of young males, ages ranging from twenty to twenty-five. They made quite the commotion, high fiving each other, laughing and talking loudly, while settling in on the edges along the main ring.

One of the advantages of being close as a daughter to Gerard meant I could spend however much time I wanted at the gym. And while I was a conscientious student and dedicated myself to fighting, I was also a girl with the love of strong men. And what better place to eye rape fine looking men than at Ireland's finest instructor's gym? He taught plenty of younger guys, such as the current group. And these guys weren't bad to look at.

"A'aight, gents!" Gerry barked good naturedly. I got several long lasting once overs from some of his students. And just before I could do anything as much as smirking at them, my happy mood bubble was broken.

"Charlie!"

Sometimes I wish I could make those bubbles out of kevlar. Gerry stopped in the middle of his speech, laid eyes on mega-klutz Max and exasperatedly rolled his eyes. Takint the hint and managing a composed grunt, I threw my fingerless gloves on the nearest bench and stalked over to my chubby friend...and a bruised Jake?

"What are you doing here?"

"You disappeared," Jake explained, eyeing me in such manner that I couldn't decipher.

"Went poof! in the sunset," Max supplied, "so we thought we should check up on you. That and Jan and her weird friend had a message for you."

"By weird friend you mean..."

"Mohawk," Jake replied before Max could even open his mouth. Something in the curly boy's posture made me think he wasn't very fond of James. I mouthed an 'oh' and he launched into further explanation, but his eyes darted from one corner of the gym to another. "She called you several times, but there was no answer."

"My phone's off."

"Figures," Max butted in. "Anyways, you're invited to some get together at Massey." His expression changed and for once, I nearly didn't recognize Max in all his severity. "CJ, what's up with that? You hang out with the enemy now?"

My jaw dropped at his judgemental figure. "The enemy? Are you serious? Are you just like Danielle and Paige? Massey is not the enemy, you dork! Does that mean you have something against Janice, too? 'Cause judging by those red cheeks of yours, you have nothing against her!"

"Lass." I swirled in time to lock eyes with Gerry. He walked up to us, having directed his class to warm up. "Ye're missin' class, Cooperman. Take it ye don't like meh trainin' no more?" Max paled, but managed to get a few words out. "Who're ye?"

Jake politely offered his hand. "Jake Farris. I'm a friend of Charlie's." People, nowadays, don't need you to tell them where they stand with you. They seem to decide that on their own. 'Am I your friend? Sheesh, of course I am!'.

Gerry shook his hand and frowned at the sight of the boy's black eye (I didn't remember leaving Jake with a black eye). "What happened to yer face?"

"Ran into a door."

I scowled at the obvious lie. Gerry, too, was no stranger of such cliché cover-ups. "Must've been a big door." Jake merely nodded in response. "Did you do anything to provoke said door?"

I laughed lightly. Jake scratched the back of his head. "I might have, sir. We have a history."

With one last good look at the result of an obvious heavy right hook, I went for a long shot: "Did the door's name happen to be Ryan?"

His head snapped my direction. Max sighed, muttering an 'I told you' in his friend's direction. I received my answer and was damned set on seeing Ryan as soon as I could. I didn't deem Jake for a saint, that was obvious. He had been looking for a reason to earn a fist from McCarthy and the latter was definitely the type to please.

The gym's clock read five thirty - an hour deemable of my retreat.

"I should be going. Ger, your student is waving like an idiot." Gerry turned to look in the direction of a red haired lanky man who had appearantly finished his warm up. Gerry grunted and started to leave.

"Excuse me, sir!" Jake suddenly called, earning the Irish man's attention. "Can anyone join your classes?"

Gerry measured the boy before answering. "Anyone who wants to keep doors at a safe distance."

I chuckled lightly before walking in the open air. The parking lot was quite empty, if I were to compare it to other days.

"When did Janice say that get together was?"

"She didn't. I think she's going to call you or tell you tomorrow."

"Anything else you guys wanted to say?"

"Good luck tonight!" I spun with lightning speed. Max had paused mid step and was watching me with a grin. Jake seemed not so pleased with me. "Break their legs!"

Rubbing my temples, I contemplated hitting him. "Thank you. Don't get your head wrapped up in this. Better yet, forget about it." Just as I turned to leave, I decided to take all safety measures existing. "If I don't answer your phones, then do not insist. It's my way of telling you to fuck off. So refrain yourselves from visiting me or calling."

Still wearing a cocky grin, Max nodded. Jake sighed, but caved. In such, the plan was made. I wouldn't realize the importance of their decisions until after the fight. Excitement was to be expected from Max as much as disagreement was from Jake, but I never once awaited implication from Nathan.

"It's been, what, a year?" I nodded, focused on my chocolate. "Great. Do you even know anyone there that could, I don't know, deliver you home or something?"

"Yes, mother," I grunted, half exasperated, half confused as to why he was so concerned. Usually, he was more of a neutral party. Then again, he had been younger and more unaware of his sister's hobbies years ago.

***

People of all ages, colours, clothes and behaviours filled the parking lot. Some hid their cars, others took no bother with that. Cigarette smoke filled my lungs. No one bothered to look at the people beside them. Familiarity was lost in the chaos of scents, engines being revved up, laughter and chatter. It was as noisy (if not worse) as our high school's parking lot - only difference that our parking lot didn't host motorcycle challenges, drug dealing and hookers ready for a long night of work on the field.

Somewhere amidst the chaos I spotted a black SUV that I had grown rather used to. Right next to it stood a slightly older guy, toned and sporting several tattooes. Unsure of my next move, I walked slowly in his direction, keeping my hood over my head with my fingers. Lucian was a smoker, it seemed. The clouds of drugs surrounded him like an unholy aura. Once I lifted my head lightly, a knowing smirk crept along his features.

"Thought you wouldn't come."

He was either teasing me, either he really had no idea of the Underground's almost biblical rules. Judging by his sparkling eyes, he was goading.

"Guess you were wrong," I retorted as emotionless as possible. I shouldn't have felt nervous, for this was my element. While telling myself that, I realized the 'yes and no' edge to it. Yes, it might have been my element, but no, this wasn't my usual hangout from Miami.

The cigarette had an abrupt death under Lucian's foot. His expression changed from sly to evil within seconds. A cold shudder worked its way up my back; the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

"Let's take you in our backroom." That decision made, all that was left was to follow him through the mass of people. "Word that an old spidey is lurking in the shadows has reached some big ears." He glanced at me as we walked through the doors to the backrooms. "Wanna guess who the spidey and the ears are?"

I cursed under my breath, loud enough to make Lucian snicker and return to his cunning demeanor. The spidey was none other than I and the big ears were the big people in charge of this area of the Underground. However, none of it was a surprise.

The backroom Ryan used looked more like a small locker room, with benches, old lockers and a beaten up table.

"You came."

The blonde boy stood up quickly, his eyes scanning my black hoodie. Revealing my face in the artificial light that drowned the room, I sighed. He wore a pair of red and white boardshorts and loosely tied sneakers, his chest bare and unveilling light bruises. His blond hair, though shortly cut, looked disheveled. Signs of a recent fight traced his features. Yet at the same time, as he pulled a t-shirt over his head, he seemed enthusiastic - if slightly wary - about my arrival. Clive was with him, having just stopped in the middle of a sentence adressed to Ryan. He looked bored, dressed in a pair of jeans and wife beater, but shocked by my appearance.

"I'm no coward."

"We never said you were," Lucian assured, smiling - if a snake's smirk could be considered as such.

Ryan looked in his direction and nodded towards the door. Reluctantly and with an apologetic look just for me, Lucian stood up and followed Clive out the door and through the alley of corridors leading up to the arena. Ryan rolled his shoulder blades, easing some of the stress in them and smiled bitterly at me.

"You can change in that room," he explained, pointing at another door to my left. Something in his voice made me pause. He was retreating, questioning his decisions. Perhaps he had been updated about the rules (if he hadn't known them, which I highly doubted) or he was doubting me.

I said nothing as I closed the door behind me and stepped in the old bathroom. Taking no interest in my surroundings, I took off my hoodie and threw it in my duffel bag, leaving me in a wife beater. I grabbed my loyal pair of red basketball shorts with the number 13 printed on the left leg. Out of habit and safety measures, I tied my sneakers as careful as possible and hoped to God I didn't trip.

Ryan inspected my hands with a frown, as if waiting for something. With a silent exhale, only meant for my ears, I pulled the last two objects out of my duffel bag, before throwing it beside his.

Mixed martial arts gloves are nothing like the boxing ones. They're small, light and have no strong cushions to protect your hands (perhaps those fighters on TV may have cushions, but not one fighter in the Underground will allow himself to be seen with cushioned gloves - it's a sign of your rookie status, per say). MMA gloves look like leather fingerless gloves, with an opening in each palm, meant to allow quick grappling and fast strikes.

The black leather felt more than just familiar against my skin. I felt like a child given back their favorite toy after a year of being in a corner. My hands settled in their place, secured by the warm interior of the gloves.

"You look nervous," I commented dryly, sitting on one of the benches.

His anxious expression had been replaced by his usual one that radiated determinance, but the silence between us was beginning to give my nerves a bad time. I began fastening the wraparounds of my gloves just as he crossed the room in a few long strides and sat beside me.

"I don't want you to think I'm forcing you into this."

I barked out a laugh. "You think this has anything to do with you? I got seen, by my own fault. You and I both know I have no chance but to make a comeback." Furiously, I tugged at the black leather. "I told you. You have no idea why I gave up."

"I don't and I...I'm sorry for saying things I shouldn't have. Be careful, will you? I know you're supposed to be the one with the jinxing powers, but I've seen these guys."

His concerned tone made me stare up at him, shocked by the troubled voice that surrounded me. I couldn't have known. There was no warning, just a set of blue eyes locking with hazel ones. He looked good, Ryan, that I couldn't deny, but I had never been one to give in to physical appearance. His silence was contagious, the spark in his eyes damnable for such confusion. He didn't know what was happening, why his breath seemed to be forced down his throat and why I felt the same. At least one of us had seen enough movies and had read enough books to see the bulb blinking in alarm. I looked away first, my only epiphany being that when I was meant to run for my life, I seemed to be taking in each aspect of him.

"You socked Jake," I scolded. But I wasn't angry. Annoyed at his behaviour, I might have been, but right then, there was no anger for Ryan.

He frowned and stood up, following me to the door. "He should learn to mind his own business," was all he said before we walked out in the empty corridors. "And Charlie?"

"Yeah?"

"Stay clear of Lucian. He's worse than Damien."

With that reinforcement, we stepped in the main part of the warehouse, where an arena was set up and the crowd of sweaty and drunk people was moving around chaotically. A shudder made its way from my shoulders to my toes. Ryan granted me a short glance, eyebrows raised in question.

"I haven't fought in months."

"I know." How he did was a mistery to me.

The fighting ring looked small from a distance, but once you stood in it, confined by metal fences and invisible chords of anticipation. I stood in the corner, waiting, expecting, keeping unnaturally still. Ryan took a spot on the right side of the ring, somewhere among other younger watchers. There, much to my despair, I recognized faces from our school. One particular face got me scowling: Danielle. She stood by Ryan's side - who was blisfully ignoring her - with a mock smirk on her face. And to JoJo's right...why was I not surprised to see Max grinning like a Cheshire cat?

My gaze fell to the right side of the ring and my blood froze. I would have thought that seeing students from Massey would have scared the shit out of me, but they were like small pawns on that table. Sitting in a chair, legs crossed and holding a bored look, was a buff man, a good few inches taller than me, with light brown hair. Donovan Reely locked eyes with me and that told me everything: he was there to wait for me to either fail and get thrown out in the most violent way possible, or win and be put back in the rows. None of the options appealed, but sometimes you have to do things that may be rather unpleasant.

My pulse rate quickened, my heart close to stopping. From the corner of my eye I saw Lucian and Clive join Ryan. Of the three, Lucian was the only one not wearing a deep frown. Instead, he balanced a cigarette from his lips. The crowd had long fallen silent. Everyone waited for a move - either his doom or my flight.

Donovan raised his right hand and in a bored gesture, flipped his palm up, as if telling me to get on with it. And then, in the corner opposite of me, appeared a tall man that I couldn't but recognize. Marty was half Italian, half American, as far as I remembered. He could have been a pretty fun guy, had it not been for his wrists the width of my neck. He bared his teeth in my direction, his lower lip bigger than normal. He had small eyes, but piercing and rather dumb looking.

He brought his gloved hands up and smashed them against each other.

And something snapped inside of me. My surroundings changed. The ring was suddenly not so strange anymore. The man before me turned into prey. My hazel eyes switched from 'caught in the headlights' mode to cold determination. I felt my muscles clench and with that, I snapped out of my reverie.

My wife beater suffered very little in the violent process of its removal. I shook my head once, twice, then when the third time came, the muscles in my legs demanded moving. Facing the world in a pair of basketball shorts and sports bra, I became alert.

As sudden as my bouncing from one foot to another came the crowd's excited cheers at the sight of me being alive.

Marty frowned at a spot on my hip. The spider there was not real, nor was it the greatest work of art, but it was a symbol of the dedication I'd shown and the work I'd put up. He didn't have one, my selfish half told me. Few people had believed in my true identity and with the unveiling of the small tattoo, shouts of encouragement and almost barbaric cries rose from the crowd.

We met in the middle of the ring. The refferee came up with few words, growing small amidst the tension coming off in waves from Marty and I.

I barely heard the whistle before Marty lunged and left me little time to duck from an incoming punch. The crowd dramatically gasped and whistled. Bastards. Gerry always said to ignore the crowd and focus on the oponnent. And that I did. There was no group of people staring and making noises. There was no Ryan watching expectantly. There was no Danielle waiting for me to fail. There was no bored Donovan.

Marty threw another hit and with his speed, I couldn't duck. Instead, I put up defense and blocked it with my elbow. Had I thought blocking Marty was easy, I was sadly mistaken. His knuckles hit the bones in my forearm, causing me to jump back. I collided with the corner of the ring and gave Marty good enough of an opportunity. He jumped, throwing punches and all I could hear was the crowd's crazed shouts of encouragement. I doubled the strength of my guard and pushed against him so sudden, that he couldn't have seen it coming.

He bounced from one foot to another and I circled him, waiting. I faked a right hook and he ducked to the left, in time for his cheek to collide with my left fist. Whistles errupted from around us. He cursed, then blocked my attack at his ribs. The latter I tried over and over again, knowing fully well that the ribs were Marty's weak spot. Bastard realized my strategy and no sooner did I find him fight back.

Blocking him seemed easy at first and I didn't understand why. My knee caught his abdomen and he doubled over for the shortest of periods, giving me a window. I jumped to his side, tried to jab him, but got blocked. I was starting to lose my breath. Out of the blue, realization of his constantly defensive game dawned on me.

He caught my left harm, pressed hard and twisted. I bit my tongue from screaming and tried to bring him down with me. He threw a punch and a jab at me. I blocked one, but his right hook caught my side. And I was a goner. I failed to anticipate his next move and gave in to my instincts, doubling over. A sharp pain came to the back of my head and before I knew it, I fell flat on the floor, my back making a thundering noise as something cracked.

I tried to curse, but the sudden lack of oxigen in my lungs made me freeze. Marty wasted no time and I only caught a short glimpse of him trying to land a kick in my side.

Get up. Get up now.

"Get up, Jinx!"

"Get that son of a bitch!"

In one futile attempt to stop his foot, I grabbed it with my good hand and twisted his ankle. He yelped and pulled back. Inhaling sharply and bringing a good deal of pain upon me, I pressed my legs around his ankles, then switched on the ground, bending his knees and making him fall.

When I got up, though, he was up as well and I failed to see the right hook heading my way. It came like a lightning bolt and all I could feel was a heavy throbbing at my temple. It didn't take a genius to realize my forehead was bleeding. Quickly, he threw a series of punches in my chest cavity, each hit landing a bone.

He stepped back, circling me with a triumphant smirk. Despite my blurry vision, I could still make out his limping leg. Though my brain was begginning to shut down, I managed to set up the smallest of goals: I had to take advantage of that leg. Hastily, I punched his unprotected side. That had him back in his guarded position, bouncing from one leg to another. I waited for a few bounces, then when he lifted his good foot off the floor, I ducked, turning around him within seconds and slammed my knee against the back of his right leg. He tried not to fall on his knees, but between convincing himself to stand up and keep his guard up, he lost focus on his surroundings, so he didn't see me elbow his spine and turned just in time for me to land a right hook in his face.

That one last hit had him spinning (and had my body throbbing with pain), before collapsing to the floor with a noise of his own. The crowd around us errupted with cheers, screams that seemed like cries of war and whistling. I felt my shoulder tremble with pressure.

Donovan stood up, no longer looking at me with a bored expression. He bore a very business-like look and with a curt nod in my direction, went his own way, the crowd parting before him like the Red Sea. I growled when the refferee tried to lift up my injured arm. He retreated quickly and allowed me to leave.

I'd forgotten what it was like to have your name cheered by a load of strangers who enjoy watching two people beat each other to the pulp. It should have felt good, but a selfish part of me was criticizing my lack of focus and told me that I could have done better. No familiar face was in sight when I managed to leave the ring, so I grabbed a towel from one of the other fighters and while pressing it to my bleeding temple, I purposely strolled down the row of corridors, doing my best to nod and thank the various spectators that gave me thumbs up or screamed my name.

The girl in the mirror looked like she had been mauled by bears. There was a trace of old satisfaction in her eyes, but even that was washed away by the pain. Strands of my black hair had been pulled out of the pony tail and the mass of raven coloured locks was disheveled. The most obvious wound was the an inch and a half cut on the right side of my head. It went from the roots of my hair down to the end of my right eyebrow. The area felt like it was being ripped into pieces; my temple throbbed and I felt as if there was glass being constantly pressed against the open cut. The thing was, it looked as bad as it felt.

Upon further inspection, I saw what looked like a bruise on my shoulder, but had quite the red colour. A whole spectrum of colours went from my chest down to my belly and all around my chest cavity. On my right side I saw another cut, but this one was hidden well enough by the bruises.

My left arm wasn't broken, thank God, but it hurt with every move.

On the outside they looked like things that would pass. What worried me was the inside.

My lungs hurt - or at least, I guessed it was my lungs. I could barely inhale without coughing back the air and the process of exhalation came out as a wheezing sound. I felt like whining.

"Charlie?" came a male voice, followed by a loud pounding on the door.

"Changing." With the speed of a rabid snail, I put my black hoodie over my sports bra. Looking down at my basketball shorts and resorting to breathing through my mouth as lightly as possible, I figured there was no way I could even take those off. So I decided that cleaning my cuts and putting my hoodie on was all the change I could manage.

The leather gloves fell in my opened duffel bag at the same time with the door being slammed open. It was probably the first time I saw Ryan so involved in something, not to mention the confusing concern he showed.

"Max says you have no ride home," he said, not masking his close inspection of my temple. "Haven't your parents got you a car or hasn't your dad borrowed you his?"

I stopped amidst handling my zipper, face betraying mild confusion. Ryan, like all of the other people that ever so often talked to me and claimed to be acquaintaces of mine (not that Ryan had ever done so - in contrary, our relationship seemed to be inimical, if platonic), knew, in fact, nothing about me.

I was supposed to get my car as soon as possible, but knowing my father, he had forgotten about the matter entirely. I couldn't get any words out of me because of the pain and was getting annoyed by the minute, for some odd reason. I watched Ryan's forehead crease with questions that he didn't ask.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he suddenly scolded. My head snapped in his direction. "Where were you looking? That cut on your head could be avoided. Ever heard of defence?"

"Fuck off," I hissed through gritted teeth. I couldn't believe my own injured ears. Instead of showing some support, he was scolding me like I was some rookie. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm the one with the spider, not you!"

I drew in a loud breath of air, ready to collapse from the weight on my chest and ribs. That got his attention and with a shake of his head, he swung his bag over his shoulder and regarded me warily.

"Can you walk?" I graced him with a muffled row of coloured words and a finger. He rolled his eyes before leaning by my side. "Put your good arm around my shoulders."

Or he could have, just as well, carried me. Not that I would have allowed him to (I tend to grow hostile when someone around me gets touchy-feely), but him offering would have been a nice gesture. Ass.

I fell in a near unconscious state in the car, somewhere between sleep and awareness, pain darkening every corner of my mind. I wished fainting would come easily, as easy as it comes on television or in your drama books. I don't faint. Never have and I doubt I ever will. However, after a fight like that and when sharp shards of pain pounded my head and chest, I wished I could just pass out like a drama queen.

"Charlie." Nathan nodded briefly at Ryan before offering me some real help to my room. My lean brother (I was thanking God for giving him a strong physique) went to my side and worked as a crutch.

All the strength left in me jumped to my mouth the second Ryan went to my other side.

"Go home," I ordered coldly, suddenly realizing what bothered me most about the situation.

He acted like I needed help. Granted, I needed it, but Ryan was supposed to see me as another fighter who had just come out of a regular fight and just needed some sleep. Instead, it crossed my mind, that all he saw at the time was a needy rookie with little experience and lack of focus (as proven in the ring).

He looked taken aback at first, but on a second inspection of my eyes, he nodded.

"Get some rest," he advised (rather idiotically) while looming over me.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Nathan kicked into action.

"I'll get the medical kit from the bathroom and some ice. You need help to your room?" I shoot him a murderous look before dragging myself to my room.

The bed made pained noises under my weight - noises that were quite in conformity with my state. I struggled to wheeze out a curse as the phone rang, breaking my silence.

A grunt was my way to answer the phone.

"Charlie?"

Shit. Shit. Shit. Why, I wondered, couldn't this girl call me when I was actually capable of speech? On her behalf, she actually seemed concerned. Still, that did not excuse her mental absence.

"Jan." My chest heaved with the pressure of oxigen. Served me right for not preparing myself for a match.

"Sanders?" Now she was downright panicked. "Charlie, are you alright?"

"Bit tired."

She seemed determined to drag answers out of me, despite my pain - granted, she knew nothing of that. "You're lying your ass off." On the background, I thought I faintly heard Liam's voice praising Janice's curse.

"'m not."

"Bullshit!" Again, a noise in the background that had me doubting the fact that Janice was at her home by herself.

"Max came with a message." My God, that seemed like the longest and most tiring sentence I had ever came up with.

She seemed momentarily distracted. "Uh, yeah. Oh, right, James came up with the idea of inviting you to a football match this Saturday. Our school's playing against some random team from town...Charlie, you're worrying me."

"Mno." I pressed my hand on the phone's microphone and masochistically drew in the sharpest of all breaths before pushing the phone against my ear. "I'm all fine, Jan. It's really late, though, and I'm not one to answer booty calls. You want me to come at that game Saturday?"

And for those brief moments, my old voice was back, though my chest felt like it had just shattered into millions of pieces and my lungs and arm were viciously pulsing, as if ready to explode. She bought it, though, which showed me just how gullible Janice was, despite her gothic tough exterior.

"It would be great. Don't worry, no one's gonna bite..." There was a sudden pause and a thud resounded. "Uh, yeah, I won't tell you how Liam took advantage of that sentence. So, anyway, don't you worry. Michael will be picking you up."

I smiled at the memory of the...vampire - how odd it was to say that.

"We could use these to work as stitches. We need to sew that up." Holy shit, Nathan! I turned to give my younger brother a sour expression, standing in my doorway with a medical kit.

I could see a blue haired girl turning white against the phone. Her voice had stilled to the point where I could tell she was ready to yell at me. "Wh-what was that?"

"Nothin'. Jan, I gotta go." My clothing rubbed against the open wound on my side and I whined like a pained dog. "Not coming t' school t'morrow. 'Night."

The ending click came and I fell on my sheets with a pained whine that could have just as well belonged to a dog.