Jack, Story of a Young Fighter P2

I can do this.

Steam fogged the sides of the mirror, but did not distort the image.

I can’t be afraid.

He saw himself, in a old beaten undershirt he loved, and a pair of red gloves. 

Fear is the mind killer…

He knew he shouldn’t be afraid, they never were. 

I must not, I will not fear….

He was different now, a far cry from the boy who was picked on and beaten. 

I accepted this fight, and now I must finish it. 

Much had changed since that day, far more than just his now full and seasoned face. 

I am strong, I am a man.

By chance or pure luck, a pair of brothers had passed by and heard the ruckus of a fight. When they checked to see, they found Jack lying there, assaulted and cowardly beaten. 

I won’t disappoint them. 

The brothers had done more than just helped him that day, they saved his life. 

This fight is for them, and I will not lose it. 

They took in a worthless skinny boy fixed him up, trained him and gave him purpose. 

I will do this.

They had taken a boy, and turned him into a man. 

I WILL DO THIS!

Jack pounded his gloves hard as his reflect seemingly nodded in approval. Today would not be a loss, but the coming of age of a new fighter.

Jack, Story of a Young Fighter P1

Our man Jack

“OOoof”

Jack’s day hadn’t started well. He had suffered abuse at work from both customers and his douche of a boss alike. In short, he was done with this day and wanted nothing more with humanity. After a long and painful ten-hour shift, he wanted to kick back a few beers and just relax. However, these guys seemed to have... other plans. He didn’t know exactly what happened, but before he knew it, three guys had grabbed him and drugged him outside. They didn’t even say why before the first fist flew. A hard jab to his face took him by surprise and snapped his head back. Another quickly followed, busting his nose and forcing it to bleed. Jack could taste his own blood but had no time to process it. Another hard cross to his ribs shocked him and stunned him stupid. Another series of jabs pushed him back against a wall, when, after a taunt about doing what they want, they began to work over his stomach. A strong fist, one far bigger than his own and seemingly made of rock, plowed into him again and again, shaking him and steadily increasing the need to throw up. A stiff uppercut came and connected with the upper portion of his stomach area, forcing out the air and having his knees go weak. He was relieved when the men allowed him to double over and fall to the ground. Hopefully, this meant the fight was over, and they would leave him be. 

It did not.