implicit; avalon [blitz]

One hit wonder and my only marks had been misses.

Squared off with a fist to the jaw and I’m splitting blood—no different than the usual yet the feeling still retains the certain animosity, even when coming from a hand that doesn’t flex purely from spite. One tap and his weight falls away, my arm regaining its feel as I pull myself to my feet, careful to avoid eye contact with the man who had just previously kept me pressed to the ground.

Two steps down and the floor still spins—a ferris wheel three seconds from sticking and I’m caught at the top, staring at a horizon that brings nausea to my mind and a blur to my eyes. I spent eighteen years scratching marks into whatever surface I could find and still the sight of any blood sent my stifling. Vibrant against pale fingers I wipe streaks of red across the side of my shirt—one more imaginary battle scar and I’m sure that by now I’m a decorated veteran.

Eyes still stuck upon the blindness of lost dignity I turn my attention to the few that linger about, a sure crowd to my normal disappointment (it was supposed to stop stinging, after time). A tear in the skin was normally accompanied by that of the heart, and even after eighty-four from that last week spent at home alone, fire still ran through my veins, setting a spark to my heart that left me with no other choice than to lay a heel to the flames. Almost nonexistent the few turns into two, myself and the girl from seven, darker hair than my own and a stare that bites deeper than my pocket knife ever could have.

Lack of impression and I’m still just Wyatt O’Connor, bleeding lip and all, set on speaking to a girl who most likely, just did not care. “If you can beat me up more than that guy just did, I’ll tell you anything you want to know about six, myself, or the other two that happened to crawl from the same hell hole.”