TW ⚠️ Violence, mental health, depression, foul language/words
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The illusion of the confined area in which I was idly maintaining my position was what kept me from collapsing.

I connect my glove to my opponent's face, unable to see his face due to the dim lighting in the stadium that was keeping me sane.

A bubble of nostalgia veils my vision, coursing through my veins and pulsing through the rhythm of my fists.

My calloused fingertips brush against the worn-out gloves.

I absorb a blow and fling my head back, my neck stiffening from the impact.

The painful sting of an uppercut causes my pupils to dilate.

My tailbone picks up the aftertaste of my body's vibration.

The referee glances at me, his expression troubled and clearly wants me to withdraw.

The ringing in my ears pull me back to reality, and I shake my head to keep going.

My fingers dig into the rope, which is the only thing that can help me get up.

My breathing patterns change as I hyperventilate, forcing me to squint in defeat.

My body begins to sweat, and I feel as if I'm drowning in my guilt.

As my opponent's body towered over mine, I lunged.

My father swings his fists, connecting to my chin and sudden hitch in my throat.

My eyes flicker between my father's, blinking quickly.

My lips part slightly, the blood coursing down my parched throat and mingling with the salinity of my sweat.

My brain and headache are battling each other, attempting to jolt me back into reality.

I watch him as he moves back into his corner, his gaze never leaving mine.

Whenever I was in a bad mood, I'd have lucid dreams.

I was accustomed to having complete control over the storyline, particularly in my dreams.

They were, nevertheless, always meaningful to me.

I planned to keep on, searching for the message hidden beneath what may have been nothing all along.

My wits would fade if I became frightened.

If I seize the bull by the horns, I will have the upper hand.

His eyes mirrored mine, heightening the adrenaline of vigilance.

That's who I was battling.

I was confronted with myself, and the only thing I could contend with was the concept of pride.

We dance around the ring, my feet bouncing on the platform.

Intensity encircled his expression, preventing any form of intuition from entering him.

Hesitation was non-existent, slamming us together like magnets.

I'd be lying if I claimed I wasn't influenced by what was going on in a made-up scenario.

Voices in your brain will constantly fool you into doubting what is actually in front of you.

My father never struck me.

He was a good man, but I was determined to stand up to him.

Crush the oncoming voices in my brain that were attempting to mislead me.

Everything felt so real to me.

I saw a chance to express myself. After all, this was a dream.

I had no qualms about allowing my emotions to rule my fight.

My wrists were clenched in a tight hold as a result of a rapid movement I made.

He looms over me, peering down at me, his eyes changing hue.

I bite my cheeks, unable to free myself from his claws.

As I stare up at him, the young girl in me begins to dominate, despite my best efforts to keep the feelings at bay.

It's not about the past; it's about understanding your past so you can fight in the present.

Otherwise, you won't know who the true opponent is or what the real problem is because it's been hidden under layers of false information, falsehoods, and manipulation.

The one with the least need is in charge of the entire partnership.

This dynamic is very evident because in any relationship, there is typically one who loves the most and the other who doesn't love and merely takes advantage of the one who offers his or her heart.

You can see how they control one other, their behaviors and emotions, and how they are the same as the supplier and the drug addict.

I address him by name.

My voice makes no sound, like if I've been submerged.

Being caught up in having no voice causes me to stumble backwards.

He pursues me, his steps taking larger leaps towards me.

All I had was a ring to lead me into open regions small enough for me to move about in.

As my father's speed quickens, I begin to shake uncontrollably, making it difficult for me to make snap decisions.

The last thing I recalled was realizing that it was my father who was in the most suffering.

Hart controlled him from the inside out, through depersonalization.

I'd had enough.

Peace was going to flow into our garden like torrents.

I was going to stand at the foot of our home, guarding it as if my life depended on it.

• • • • • • •

"Room service," says the room service guy, his voice muffled by the thick fabric of the tablecloth.

Five minutes.

As he moves the table inside Hart's room, the man huffs slightly.

In the room, I could see two people.

Hart and his daughter.

Hart's daughter will exit the room as soon as the man stops the trolley.

"OK, sweetie, mommy will be waiting downstairs to get you."

I keep an eye on him through the tablecloth's little square knitting.

She skips towards the door after he kisses her on the cheek and bids her goodbye.

"Grilled salmon with Chardonnay, sir."

"Thank you; you may leave." Hart responds.

The man exits the room, leaving Hart and I alone.

Hart approaches the table, and I grasp both ends of the tablecloth and spring towards him.

He lets out a yell, his eyes widening in a single second, and I use the tablecloth to bind his hands together.

He headbutts me, but my hands grip the tablecloth as tightly as they can, keeping his hands together.

I let out a grunt, his arms flailing and straining to break free from the thick fabric's grip.

He pushes me into the wall, the impact not as severe as it could have been since the wall was thin.

I let go of his hands, and he takes advantage of the chance.

He takes a step back, fists balled and raised.

I sneer at him, turning my head and raising my fists in imitation.

"Surprising in every way. A family trait." He mocks, the blood dripping from his nose and onto his white button up.

I make a right-handed fist, my knuckles brushing up against his nose.

He staggers back, but quickly regains his footing.

"Do you think you can beat me, kid? You're nothing more than a pathetic little girl."

He motions me closer with his hands.

"You're not going to get out of here alive."

I take the Chardonnay and smack him across the face with the glass bottle.

Blood dripped from his skull and over my palms as the pieces scattered on the floor.

I immediately grab a shattered shard and use it as a weapon.

He pulls out a knife and flips it open.

My gaze is drawn to the gleaming blade, and he takes a step forward, swinging the knife at my arm.

As the stinging bursts through my body, I bite my cheeks.

We swing at each other like pirates fighting to protect their ship.

Being a boxer gave me an edge since I was quick on my feet and could get out of the path of opponents.

When he swings with ferocity, I duck just in time.

I crouch down just enough to kick him in the ankles and knock him off his feet.

My head was throbbing and I had tunnel vision.

All I could see in front of me was Hart.

Weak.

And on his back.

I charge at him, wrapping my ankles around his neck in a jujitsu technique I learned from Barry.

He fights beneath my thighs as he begins to cut me all over.

I hiss in anguish, attempting to gain the upper hand.

He laughs, which reverberates around the hotel room.

He reaches up to choke me, forcing me to let go.

He spins me back around and lifts me off the ground.

As his hold tightens on me, I gasp for air.

"I'm warning you: get out of here or I'll kill you."

He lets go of my hand, his face close to mine as he stares me down.

As my face grows warm and the veins in my brain itch to spring out, I clasp his hands and smile.

"You?"

His grasp becomes tighter.

"Me."

I scrape at his hands with a toothy grin, but he doesn't budge.

"I'm terrified." I say this sarcastically.

"I'm aware of all the hard hitting shit you get up to in Charleston."

I make an effort to breathe via my nose.

"Smith always assigns one of his to do the dirty work."

He starts digging his nails into my flesh.

He draws a gun from his holster.

I look at the gun as he aims it at me, his other hand strangling me.

"You're going to shoot me? Do it! Pull the trigger!" I mock him.

I had no way out and no plan.

At the very least, I would have died attempting to save my family.

"DO IT!" I shout, my jaws clenched.

Hart doesn't pull the trigger, but his fingers are resting on the trigger's tip.

"I've always known you were a bitch. People who put up a show like that never get the fire."

Mockery was pumping adrenaline into me so that I wouldn't lose this fight.

"What are you planning to tell her?" My voice is low and raspy as I ask him.

"Your father is only attempting to maintain the family name before it perishes with him in the grave." I taunt.

He knocks the shit out of me and I'm on my knees on the ground, grasping the carpet.

He takes my hair from behind, grabbing the roots and yanking my head back to look at him.

"If you put on another performance, I will not hesitate to kill you. If you try to slip past me with your father, I will make sure neither of you see tomorrow."

I tumble to the floor as he lets go of my hair.

He crouches down, towering over me, and I clench my fists once again, my chest heaving up and down.

Squinting his eyes, he lightly strokes my cheek.

"You are adored by my daughter. But, you know, people aren't always what they appear to be on the surface."

He lightly taps the side of my face.

"Daddy didn't raise you right."

He then strikes me again and tosses the bloody cloth on me, leaving me in the room.

I lay there in silence,

my eyes rolling back to my head, exposing the whites of my eye.

I am a meaningless burst of consciousness.

There is no God to keep an eye on me.

My existence is insignificant.

A brief dull hum, followed by a brief flicker.

None of it matters.

It was simply shit that occurred, and the universe continues on.

~

"Defeat is for the brave. Only they will understand the honor of losing and the delight of winning.

I'm not here to tell you that defeat is a natural part of life; we all know that. Love is only known to the vanquished.

Because it is in the world of love that we fight our first fights — and typically lose.

I'm here to remind you that there are people who have never been defeated.

They are the ones who have never battled.

They avoided injuries, humiliations, emotions of powerlessness, and those moments when even warriors doubted the reality of God."

As I sat on the hotel's broad ledge, I dangled my feet over the side.

My Grandmother's remarks always got to my heart.

She saw the positive in everything.

Even when confronted with the most heinous of foes.

That I didn't comprehend about her.

I knew we had to be nice to others since we never know what goes on behind closed doors.

But with your life on the line, I really didn't have a choice.

I was trapped in a worm hole of defeat all around me.

It's as if I was just put on this planet to be a punching bag for everyone.

I was waging a struggle that no one was aware of.

Or, if someone did find out, I felt like I was the last man left standing.

I took a swig from the can of beer.

I tilt my head back, allowing the cool beer to stream down my dry throat.

I smashed the can and tossed it to the side, tapping my foot softly on the concrete.

I sighed, attempting to take my mind off the events of the day.

"When you're lost in those woods, it might take a long to realize you're lost. For the longest time, you can convince yourself that you've simply strayed off the route and will return to the trailhead at any minute.

Then darkness falls again and again, and you still don't know where you are, and it's time to confess that you've strayed so far off the road that you don't even know which direction the sun rises anymore."

"Would you rather be a character in your own narrative or a bystander writing about it? Every person faces anxiety and uncertainty on a daily basis.

The only failure in life is believing that your worth is determined by the approval or resources of others.

The fact is that when you are living your actual self rather than how others want you to act, you are free to use the full range of your creativity and skills. People do not require resources to get out of any problem in life.

They must be creative in order to generate resources. It's difficult to become trapped once you recognize that."

Her words were always crystal clear to me.

It seemed as though she was with me wherever I went.

I peered up into the sky, then down at the Charleston skyline.

I was debating between defeat and persistence.

My gaze is drawn to a boat that is preparing to depart its pier.

I observe as the family gathers for a photo before boarding the boat.

As his father follows him, the small child runs up to the steering wheel.

As the others try to get him to sit, I crack a little smile.

According to my drama teacher, witnessing individuals go about their regular lives is a useful technique for outstanding acting.

You see their reactions to living their lives. It will never be flawless, but understanding that concept will allow you to provide a raw performance.

You are temporarily placed in the shoes of another person, yet you may also be inventive.

You give yourself permission to feel their emotions and view things from a different angle.

That was always something I grappled with.

The way I react to situations is based on how I feel, on my emotions, rather than on how others feel.

That is a trap in and of itself.

It was how I got by. I couldn't take being placed in a box and classified as what society thought of me.

I feel stifled and disoriented, like a robot trained to perform what the inventor wants.

I'm not saying I won't think about how others feel; in fact, I think about other people's feelings a lot.

But who I am as a person is someone who is willing to go the extra mile for those they care about.

I will go to great lengths to defend everyone I care about.

I was struggling to find clarity in my head about what I actually want.

And for a brief moment, I felt I didn't know what I truly desired.

I couldn't find serenity in myself or who I was meant to be.

Whatever move I made, good or bad, the dominoes would always tumble down.

Every action I made had a domino effect, and that was the trap I was in.

A never-ending cycle of defeat.

My scars seemed like the only thing that defined me.

It was the humanity that remained in me. It was the only thing that brought me back to reality.

It detailed the tale of my mistakes and victories. My successes and fights. Scars were also apparent, indicating how far I had progressed.

Whatever my height, width, or length was, it defined who I was.

It was what I considered beautiful.

Because that is how humans are.

I wanted to dance about, to give in to my mind's positive message of perseverance.

Of accepting, moving on, and loving.

But I couldn't get into the rhythm of the beat that danced over my feet, moving my body to the pulse of life.

I was looking for answers in the unknown.

I'm perplexed by my own purpose.

Or rather, eager to find out what it was.

Who I was.

I glance up at the stars.

So many.

Like humanity on this planet.

Everyone has its own glow.

Each star shone brightly in its own position.

Each has a significance.

Someone is currently staring up at the stars, pondering their significance.

Experiencing the same emotions as myself.

Desire for new ways to grow.

Wanting to make a change but feeling trapped.

When you're stuck, It is just a matter of time until you stood up.

Get your feet moving.

Go there.

Get some fresh air by going for a stroll and moving about.

That's what my grandmother advised me to do.

Get your mental gears turning.

You're never going to find out everything today.

But what you can do is take a step.

Take the first step and show others how to do the same.

Make errors and learn from them.

Persevere.

I let out a nervous laugh.

That's something I've been doing since I was born.

I shook my head, knowing it wouldn't work. I simply needed to take a step back.

Take a step back and look at things from a different angle.

See what I'm doing wrong, because my route has led nowhere thus far.

And as I look back, I realize that no one is following me.

Everyone I thought I was fighting for has abandoned me.

Not even on my journey.

I bite my cheeks while rubbing my wounded rib cage.

I throw my bag on the floor and rummage around my room for anything.

I stuffed anything and everything I could find since I didn't want to leave a trace.

My body's discomfort reassured me that I was making the best decision for myself.

It was well thought out.

As I approach the door, I lower my sunglasses.

Gripping the door handle and opening it.

I pull out my car keys and unlock the car door, leaving my luggage at the foot of the front door.

I leave the lamp's light on to provide illumination throughout the home.

Hurrying myself, the more time I wasted the more things I would have to debate so I grab my coat and

"Kie, that's not the answer."

~

Season 3 is our season 😮‍💨🤍 #Riara