Fight Me
Written in 2015. I was an angsty teenager and martial arts was life.
She breathes white fire beneath the street lamps, her knuckles are plated with steel, don't mess with me, she thinks.
These veins are pumped with the energy of a thousand tournaments, she's not afraid of anyone. Her skin's still hot from practice. Turning kick, right hook, counterattack. She delivers an uppercut to the chilly air and evades the shadowy attackers so intent on circling her. Goosebumps run up and down the nape of her neck. The air is electric and tonight, she is alive.
At night, the path leading away from the dojo takes on a new form, swathed in black vines and patches of moonlight. She tilts her head back and the stars meet her with indifference. Watch me, she mouths, unsure of what she's trying to prove. She imagines scenarios, middle-aged men around the corner, sneaking up from behind, hiding behind the tree up ahead. A deft block, sharp palm strike to the bridge of the nose, minimal movement. Her opponents will lie like carcasses on the pavement, blood dripping from their crooked noses and crooked mouths. She thinks, don't you dare try to hurt me don't you dare I will cut you I will break your bones... She catches herself muttering and smiles at the image.
Did the tree just move?
Right there, beside the path, protruding from its silhouette, quivering ever so slightly. She creeps along the path in utter silence, nostrils flaring, her breath caught in her chest. On instinct, her forearms rise from her sides, ready to neutralize any attack. She pounces.
The enemy is less than half a metre tall. For a brief moment it stares at her with its huge, blank eyes before retreating into the darkness, leaving her with a pounding heart and red crescents in her palms. There are too many roots beneath this tree, she thinks.
There are too many roots, gnarly and interwoven. They begin to weave themselves around her ankles and legs, tugging at her uniform, parasites threatening to invade and consume her body. She's ten years old again and pinned to the tatami, wriggling and squirming and fluttering her arms. The wooden beams watch her with eves that have seen generation after generation of great masters defeated, her own instructor amongst them. Looking so smug in his old parka. With a burgeoning heart she gets up again. Almost immediately a hand drives her into the floor. She gets up again. With every takedown she renews her friendship with the ceiling. She is reminded that there's no other route but up, up, up through the ranks.
A motor rumbles in the distance. Her footsteps, less careful now that there's definitely no-one around the corner or behind the tree, echo across the empty street.
She freezes.
The motor isn't accompanied by the sound of spinning tyres. Nor has it faded into oncoming traffic.
And then the engine cuts abruptly.
She risks a glance over her shoulder. It's much closer than she'd estimated. A car with no headlights, parked beside a black rectangle that would usually read 'No Stopping' in the daytime. She hears the quiet sound of the door opening and closing. Now the dark folds of the street are parting, shadowy ex-lovers releasing their grip on a human figure.
There are footsteps that aren't her own, subdued but far from cautious, growing louder and louder. She tightens the straps of her schoolbag and rolls up her sleeves, clenches and unclenches her fist. An armour of sheer recklessness forms around her skin. Is she ready for this? Of course. She can't accept defeat.
Her walking slows by just a fraction. The sudden stench of beer.
"Hey bab-"
She spins around and strikes with her knuckles of steel and blood beating heart. The man staggers back a few drunken steps, regains his footing.
Run!
No; she has unfinished business. But she's too terrified and exhilarated to react when a black flurry of limbs comes from nowhere and everywhere, pummelling her stomach. Vaguely she notices the familiarity of this routine, of this impact, of this stature. She gasps and retches and holds her ground. Nose, throat, solar plexus, arch of the foot, she chants to herself. Those are the weak points. She needs to prove that she... she needs to prove...
"Come on, princess, what other moves you, you got huh?"
She notices that his parka's zipper is broken. Two rings on his fourth and fifth fingers.
"Okay! Don't ignore me, you bitch!" He lunges forward; she drives an elbow into empty air. No, no, no, it can't be him. But it is his voice.
"I'm your superior and all and whatnot you gotta listen to me okay? Be a good girl, good girl darling..."
Why? Why him?
"You've been such a good girl all these years... I've waited so long. It's about.. about time I gave you somethin' special, somethin' I give to my best students—"
This time her knee hits her target. The impact sends him sprawling to the ground; she drives her heel straight into the logo stitched onto his breast, hears a rib crack. She jumps onto his pathetic, manly body and swings the flesh bludgeons attached to the end of her arms, no longer thinking nor feeling. He must be unconscious by now, but she doesn't stop.
She doesn't stop until her parents call and ask her where the hell she is and if she needs a ride home and she replies no, I'm fine, thankyou. She knows she will not be going to the dojo tomorrow, or ever again. She rises from the bloody mess on the pavement, heaves her bag onto her shoulder, and melts into the night.