BAITED. (Scott Lang Drabble)
(TW/CHOKING & DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE)
BAITED
Scott felt the anger boiling in his chest. He was like a kettle that had been put on to boil. He was being baited. He was constantly being lured to self-destruct. The problem was that Scott never listened to the little voice that sat in the back of his head. And typically, he could take it. Usually, he would say ‘fuck off’ and disconnect.
But those words hit a trigger, and Scott was seeing red.
He felt his heartbeat within his chest. The drumming made blood rush to his ears. His vision funneled. He had one thought on his mind, which always led to self-destruction. The two people who brought him off the ledge were busy, and although Strange did a pretty decent job of it, he was too far gone. Scott left his phone sitting on his counter. He didn’t want to be found that night. Scott left so quickly that he didn’t bother to throw on a jacket. The anger sitting in his throat was enough to warm every nerve-ending. He was utterly numb to every other feeling besides rage. Scott’s chest heaved with heavy breaths. His head was spinning. He only had one thought on his mind.
Scott let his body do the thinking for him. He was acting on impulse. Though this time, he went alone.
He was being dragged back into hell.
Scott rapped his knuckles quickly against the graffitied door, the code second nature at this point. Hoping the faster he knocked, the quicker he’d be able to blow off steam. The door opening was where his memory got foggy. His memory flashed in and out.
He remembers asking to be put in.
He remembers wrapping up his knuckles.
He remembers winning three fights.
Though that was the last thing he remembers. The mix of cheers and hollers kept him in it. Kept him blacked out with rage. That was until one person’s words broke through the black.
‘LANG IS GOING TO KILL ‘EM!’
When he came to for the final time, he had his hands wrapped around a man’s throat, pushing down on his windpipe so hard the white tint of his knuckles peeked through the dripping blood. His entire body shaking. And even though his mind was screaming at Scott to retreat, his body wouldn’t let him. The man was clawing at Scott’s hands, desperately trying to breathe. His face was severely bloodied and red from lack of oxygen.
‘SOMEONE GET LANG OFF OF ‘EM!’
This was beyond a tap-out. And Scott knew that. The crowd knew that. Yet he couldn’t stop himself. The fight moderators had to step in. Scott felt his shoulders being yanked at. Clammy large hands grabbed at his bruised and bloodied body, trying desperately to pull him out of his blind rage. But Scott was being dragged back into hell.
The fight moderators broke the connection before the man suffered any lasting damage to his windpipe. Scott slipped through their grasp and continued using all his force to punch the guy. Over and over and over. Scott couldn’t stop. Thinking back, Scott was sure he'd broken the man’s nose. But Scott didn’t care because he didn’t see the man. He didn’t even see a victory.
And he wanted himself dead.
When there was a long enough break, the hands grabbed at any part of Scott. Yanking him backward and to his feet, effectively pulling him off the man who was now unmoving on the ground. Scott tried desperately to get back to what he was doing. His end game was to silence the little voice in the back of his head.
“Let me kill him...” Scott repeated as he was pulled back. That was until the words exploded from his chest. “LET ME KILL HIM!”
Scott’s scream silenced the crowd.
The silence was what knocked him back to reality. Pulled him out of hell. He stopped fighting. When the moderators figured he was calm enough, they let him go. Scott scanned the crowd, whispers stinging his ears. His senses finally flooded back.
The metallic taste of blood was enough to make him sick. His body ached like he had been hit with a sack of bricks. His head was pounding. His heart was racing faster than it ever had before. Scott felt embarrassed. Scott spits the blood that settled in his mouth to the side before doing a final once-over on the crowd.
He left before he could collect his winnings.
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