D1 :: Mohs Aurum {Complete}

XX

The kid sucks he tells himself. If the plastic heap of tangled limbs were a drowning victim, they'd have a whole lot of busted ribs and not too much life to look forward to. Mohs suppresses a scowl; the student had been resuscitating the dummy for well over ten minutes. Determined, but too stubborn.

"Enough." he commands, arms folding across his chest. "Cut your losses. He's been dead for a long time."

Tears well at the corners of the kid's eyes, and liquid weakness spill over to streak down his cheeks. Mohs sighs and stiffly bends down to lift him up. "You're fourteen, stop crying." After a moment to let the kid catch his breath, the trainer puts a hand to his forehead and grumbles out "Get out. You're done for today." Wiping his eyes, the kid scurries out, in time for the next class to saunter in.

~~--~~--~~--~~--~~--~~--~~

He cringes from the mirror, fingers rising to pet fresh rose-pink skin, a new growth standing out parallel to his jaw. A nose pokes from an otherwise handsome face, just ever so slightly off-kilter from being broken once-or more. Outcroppings of jagged, jumbled teeth protrude from thin lips as he makes faces at himself, watching the fresh scar crawl along his face. Startlingly blue eyes wander from his chin to deep purple stains, bags distorting his high cheekbones. Each new scar brings fresh pain, every failure etched permanently into his body like brushstrokes on a tainted watercolor. He is fifteen, face free of stubble (unlike eighteen year old Mohs), lean frame swaying gently from side to side as he further examines himself.

A booming voice echoes from the hallway two doors from the left, and a frown graces Mohs' countenance. The man in white claps the boy's shoulder, sending him a little forward. Between last year and this, Mohs had grown an imposing six inches and now stumbled occasionally over his own gangly limbs. "You'll be fine." the trainer whispers, gentle words of comfort rest upon the teen's ears, but he shies away as if he were slapped. Mohs had been tripping lately, more and more as he adjusted to the length of his new body.

Even his personality had begun to change- Mohs became more withdrawn as the days passed, and anxiety ate away at his guts as the match with the rival drew nearer and nearer. Today crept up on the male, and he shivers at the thought of fighting a nineteen year old girl with five years of experience ahead of him while simultaneously pondering why he was slacking off instead of stretching and warming up like any sensible man would.

Together they walk through the second door on the left, down the hall, into a new room. Mirrors surround them on three sides, reflecting back at those mock-battling, and square interlocking foam roll pads cover the hardwood floor. To the right, a suspicious dark shadow screams at Mohs as he adjusts his shirt and steps onto the dark roll platform. A two-way window is built into the fourth wall, where visitors can watch if they so chose, though it looks to be empty.

The girl stands planted firmly in the middle of the room on one foot, the other raised high in a graceful arc above her head, as though she were a ballerina. She is small, not even five foot even, but she makes up for her short stature with the wisdom carved into her very being, and the sharp ferocity of a career who's name never was called.

Mohs' young eyes followed her perfect form, from her pristine pointed toes all the way down to her well anchored heel, and everywhere in between. He swallows nervously, and drags his eyes away, choosing instead to lift the hefty axe free from his trainer's hands. She flits away and takes a short sword, a wolf-like snarl upon her features.

They face the mirrored walls, and Mohs watches her serious expression with a frown of his own. He wasn't ready for this, he wanted to scream. His hands tremble as they turn and she charges at him first.

The fight takes only a few moments with Mohs defending before lashing out with the axe- it grazes her skin, and the female lets out a primitive snarl. She spins, twists, and turns in one fluid movement. Mohs expects her to slice left, but she feigns and swings right just at the moment he stumbles, and catches his foot on an uplifted pad just an inch too high.

They remained there for an eternity, like a scene from a Renaissance oil-painting; the gladiator slaying a lion, a twisted David destroying Goliath. One moment Mohs catches himself upon the puzzle piece pads, the next he falls forward, confused as electric tendrils of liquid fire shoot up his thigh. Only whimpers slip past his lips before his face screws up in a look of immense pain.

Desperate fingers clutch for empty air, then fall to a damp, painful stump. The scream cleaves through the white-walled, mirrored training center. Hopes and dreams spill out of the severed limb, a life-force draining from his senses. Mohs cannot lift himself to look and instead, settles for focusing on the emotionless bloody face of the girl who ruined the prospective's chances at having any sort of life. She does not move, even when the loud-mouthed, axe-toting trainer falls and elevates what's left of the boy's leg and orders her to call some kind of authority.

Her piercing emerald eyes are the last things he sees for the next week.

When Mohs finally leaves the clinic, he sits weary faced in a wheelchair pushed by a solemn father who knows his son has no future. Though the winter air hovers heavy and cold, Mohs makes no move to further cover himself from the chill. His face is pale, cast down to stare at tiny black pinpricks and shadows of blood pooled below transparent flesh. He wonders who gave their blood so he may live- it was a waste. he thinks cruelly to himself. One firm leg is planted within the metal brace of the chair, and the other rests just off the cushioned edge, wrapped tightly in off white rolls of gauze.

His mother cries, mourning the ghost of her son, while his father grits his teeth and scowls any time he bears witness to her 'Unladylike Screeching.'

With the use of a pair of crutches, Mohs manages from room to room. He stumbles and trips more than ever before, sometimes remaining on the floor for minutes at a time, though he always manages to get back against the wall to support himself. Bit by bit, he picks himself up struggling for weeks to live as a shadow of his former self.

As the injury occurred over the start of winter break, Mohs only misses a few weeks worth of class. He returns to whispers of pity from those once close, and sighs of 'What could have been's from girls who once thought him handsome. Three of his five classes transformed from cardio, free weights, and and wrestling into math, reading, and geology. Out of the new batch of academia, Mohs connects best with writing, and more specifically, sappy poetry.

Not that wussy shit that talks about "'Hope' is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul—". No. Things like "Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred." Damn right he has a soft spot for poetry.

A long while passes before he opens up to the teens around him, when Mohs realizes the friends who once comforted him and stitched up his ego are now no where to be seen. He gains a few new friends, and learns to detach himself from the pain of losing the old. The new avoid things like alcohol and drugs, instead opting for whispered words of poetry between them. They remain while he struggles through the process of adapting a false limb, leaving words of encouragement instead of slurs of a demeaning nature against his eardrums.

He limps, relying heavily on a cane. Gone are the days where Mohs could easily haul himself over a low brick wall. No longer can he sprint to keep up with his classmates, opting instead for an embarrassing permanent hall pass with the understanding and pity of administration. Occasional phantom pains, strange sensations, plague Mohs- particularly when it is about to rain during this time.

A year passes, with Mohs becoming increasingly restless as the others around him take mandated tests to determine the types of jobs they may qualify for. What good is a diamond miner who can't stand on their own, or a supervisor who cannot stand for long periods of time? Worrisome thoughts of the future plague his visions, of street corners and scantily clad women, of back allies and the mysterious men with mysterious pills, while his friends assure him there are other avenues available.


It was her trainer.

He came to Mohs one night as Mrs. Aurum set the table for three. The fourth place was hurriedly set for the newcomer who talks and talks as though he were a leaky faucet with the water pressure turned on full-blast. A nervous twitch develops below the table as Mohs taps out an incoherent rhythm, a babble of emotions welling up within his chest. On one hand, he was guaranteed job security at a young age- with health benefits and a steady paycheck included! But on the other, Mohs would be reduced to nothing more than... Than a teacher.

His father speaks lowly of those who teach- 'Why teach if you can do' is one of his favorite catchphrases. Mohs watches Mr.Aurum for any sign of disapproval, but instead he nods. He agrees with the trainer, who insists Mohs come later for a proper interview.

Maybe once he realizes any option is a good option when it's all you have left.

~~--~~--~~--~~--~~--~~--~~

The next clusterfuck of kids arrive late, laughing, shouting, and being generally obnoxious. Mohs tells them to stand for role call. The stupidestbravest of the group grins and comments on his trainer's stance, taunting the six foot five male , who leans heavily on a mahogany cane in his right hand. The kid is only fourteen, four years younger than Mohs.

The teacher leans forward and forces himself close to the unflinching brat. Harsh whispers escape his lips and the kid finally relents, gulping, twitching a little out of fear.

Mohs stands tall while the punk starts laps and CPR class starts again, with a brighter attitude as the rest straighten themselves out.