The Fighter

Today I woke up on my feet again. At first I thought I was in a dream--or a nightmare. But if this were a nightmare, I would eventually wake up, and the universe is too cruel for such a thing to be true.

I'm staring across a bizarre wet dock at my best friend, Ken. On either side of us, sailors cheer us on. I cannot hear their words, but their pumping fists scream for blood. Ken is bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, his fists held loosely in the basic Shotokan stance our master had taught us. Like always, I impotently try to yell to him. "We don't want to do this!" I try to yell. "We need to figure out why we're in this hell!" No words come out. Why can't I move? Why can't I move my body?

I hear the familiar disembodied voice all around us: "Round one." Who's saying that? Am I saying that? Is it in my head? Ken leaps toward me, and I cover my face in a standard guard. I don't understand...was the block reflexive? I immediately trip Ken before rising into the air for a hurricane kick. Over and over again, my feet pound into his face, and the force knocks Ken through a barrel and onto the ground. Now I know this is no longer reflex. My movements, my actions, are not my own. I am possessed. I am damned. The crowd's silent cheering continues.

Ken rises almost immediately. He attacks a second time, I crouch--or someone makes me crouch--but Ken's fist connects. He initiates a dragon punch, and my whole body is aflame. I wonder if Ken is locked in, too. I wonder how long until we beat each other to death.

The fight is a blur. I hip-throw. I am hip-thrown. At one point, my phantom puppetmaster sends ki channeling between my fists and a ball of fire shoots out of my arms. The flames burn. They always burn. The next few seconds are spent trading blows that shake the Earth. After what seems like a lifetime of pain, my body lies broken on the ground. I want to cry, but I still can't move. I wait for sleep to take me, but The Voice returns.

"Round two," It says. I am on my feet again. I am sliding away from Ken. Whoever is controlling me, whatever sick mind could think of such tortures, this is the closest thing to a respite they give me. It lasts only a moment, and Ken is on me again. I am punched in the face. Roundhoused in the stomach. I am uppercutted in the groin. I get so dizzy that I see stars. I just want to let Ken kill, to let the pain end, but the sadist pulling my strings won't let it. For a second time, I lie on the ground, broken. For a moment, everything goes black, and I silently pray that this is the end. My prayer is heard by no one. Or God hears--and doesn't care. I come to and am confronted by my own shredded face, blistered and bleeding. I can see a countdown. What is that? Is this a fucking game? Is this entertainment for the gods? Ken taunts me; I wish I could believe that's how Ken would act. Then I could believe he wasn't trapped. Like I am.

The timer reaches one, and for a moment I hope that a zero will give me what I've been waiting for: oblivion. But in the distance, I hear the clinking of coins. My eye twinkles, and the nightmare begins again.