It was all so cliche: rain pouring down in sheets, poorly-maintained streetlights flickering some hidden rhythm, the neon sign with missing letters, the din of a throng of spectators, and the two of us, duking it out in the middle of it all. We circled, angry, tired, and waited. My hands were heavy. I kept my chin down, hoping that he would make the first mistake.

He did.

His weight shifted, telegraphing a punch that went wide. I took his exposed back as an invitation to kick him in the stones. The crowd fell silent as he crumpled to the ground, hands holding himself. He retched as his body thudded, voiding beer and nuts on already-wet pavement. The scent was atrocious.

I let my hands down, closed my eyes, and tilted my head to the sky, a ragged breath tearing its way out from deep inside my chest. It was over: I won, and no one was ever going to take that away from me. This moment was mine, and today I claimed my victory on my terms. Exulting in the feeling, I breathed again, uncaring of stray droplets making their way down into my lungs.

I didn't notice the crowd getting riled up, that communal feeling of being cheated out of their spectacle boiling up into a communal rage. I didn't hear someone coming up behind me. I didn't know he was holding a beer bottle. I did feel a moment of impact against the back of my skull, then I felt nothing more.

In the end, we all got what we deserved.