Fever induced insomnia has hit my creativity. Do you know where YOUR mind is, cause I’ve certainly lost mine.
Nick’s eyes are glazed, a bruise starting forming across one of his cheekbones. His whole body is working on autopilot, fists lazily pounding chunks of gore into the concrete. Body numb and sounds deafened as if there was cotton wedged into his ears, the dizziness sets an exhaustion in his muscles. It had all happened so fast. Buck came in early, waking him up with a pile of clothes being thrown at him and a bowl of flavorless noodles set on the bottom step. No words, no taunts, no touching. He just left him alone to get dressed and eat. It scared Nick more than threats. He paced for an hour or several, pausing only when he heard yelling from upstairs, then laughing followed by the door slamming.
It was sometime after he huddled in the corner and fell asleep that the door slamming shocked him awake. The new figure in the room confused him. It wasn't Buck. Was he dead? Did this guy kill him? Was he going to let him go. The frustrated yell signaled a charge and might as well have been a bell with how quickly Nick got to his feet and slipped past a thrown punch. The uppercut grabbed the new guy in the ribs and for a second it seemed to take the fight out of him. Nick didn't see the knee coming. Why would you in boxing? The shot between the legs hurt like hell but didn't cripple him, it was the knuckles that grazed his cheek that did that. Lack of food and exercise had made him soft and slow. Maybe, just maybe if he got past this guy, he could break for the door. The thought was enough to make the fire burn behind his eyes. He had to drop this guy. He needed to. He had to pretend it was Buck.
A one-two to the face and the stranger hit the floor, blood blooming from his nose and a gash in his eyebrow. Obstacle defeated, he stumbled toward the stairs. The shadowy figure perched on the landing made him falter and trip over the bleeding body to land on his hands and knees at the first step. Buck’s eyes held a dark pleasure as he sipped from a bottle. He had been watching. This whole thing was just a game to him. Rage built under his skin but all his captor gave was a slight tip of his bottle back to the body on the floor. Sharp pain like fire bit at the skin on his calf as he’s pulled back into the room. The man had come back to his senses and had pulled a pocket knife.
Nick rounded on the man, smashing his wrist to pieces on the floor before getting to work bashing his head in.
It seemed too surreal. Fights had always been fair. Monitored. There was always someone to reel him in. He finally falls away from the body and drags himself back to the corner. Blood splashed across his body cools and thickens and the knowledge that most of it isn't even his own makes him more nauseated than reassured.