That guy:Training Day

I can taste it. It’s such an ever familiar taste.


I spit. Blood sprays everywhere.
I glare at him from my seat. My prison. My cold, unfeeling lament.
I can feel it. The IV of irony is jammed directly into my brain. He
glares right back.

“Go ahead. Gloat.”
I nearly choke on blood trying to speak.

He laughs.
I still hear that laugh in my nightmares.

He crouches down, puts himself on my level. He’s taunting me.
“Give up.”

I can’t move.

But I can still see it coming.

He draws back.
His kick forces the rest of my lunch out.

And I love it.
He draws back again.
I manage to wrap my arms around his leg, and pull it into my chest.
He pitches forward, and lands square on my chest.

Oxygen is for the weak.
The rhythmic punching beats a metronome into my face.
One fist is so covered in blood that it slips. And I grab it.

But there’s too much blood on it. He wriggles free.


I feel the pressure vanish off my chest. Was the ceiling always so beautiful?
A figure steps in my view.
A hand is offered to me.

I muster the last of my energy, and raise mine.

I am ripped off the ground.

Never has a chair felt so good.
He hands me the bottle and a towel.
I press the sweet fabric to my face, and open the bottle.

Rubbing alcohol never smelt so good.

I turn the bottle upside-down over my head.
The liquid washes away the blood.

The towel does nothing to stop my jaw from clenching involuntarily.

Another day in paradise.