Page 70 of Vicious Behaviors
As I size Benny up, I already know it won’t be him. From the overgrown nails on his feet to the black, oily streaks in his hair, I can see he doesn’t have it in him.
I close my eyes and feel it begin—the crawl of something primal under my skin. The demon, sharpening its teeth. Anticipating the taste of blood.
I should feel sorry for Benny.
He doesn’t know who he’s really fighting. Because it’s not me. It’sit.
‘Enough games. Let me at him. I’ve waited long enough,’the voice croons in my head, every syllable thick with bloodlust.
And just like that, I let go of the reins.
There’s a freedom in surrendering to the thing inside me. A terrible kind of relief. It reminds me how exhausting it is to keep it caged. To stay in control every second of every day. But in here—in this ring—I can let it loose. The weight falls from my chest like a boulder. All that’s left to do is wait. Wait for Benny to strike first.
I always let them throw the first punch. I’m not even sure why anymore. Maybe it’s my way of giving them one last scrap of dignity. Or maybe it’s how I punish myself for letting the demon off its leash. But the second Benny’s fist connects with my face, pain radiates through my skull like lightning, and I know it’s the only punch he’ll get.
What follows feels like a lucid dream. I don’t move. Not yet. Instead, I let him think he’s done something with his first punch. Let him taste the high before I take it away from him. I can see his triumphant grin from the corner of my eye. That stupid, crooked grin full of false victory. He has no idea what he’s started.
I turn my head back slowly, crack my neck to the left, then to the right. I feel the snap in my spine as the beast inside me stretches to life, hungry when Benny comes at me a second time.
It’s only then that I move. I duck low, fast—faster than he expects—and drive my shoulder into his gut. The wind goes out of him in a sharp gasp, and I use the momentum to lift him off his feet and slam him against the ropes. The sound of the impact echoes through the gym like a gunshot. He tries to recover, throwing a wild hook. I block it easily and step in close. Too close for him to breathe.
I jab him once to the ribs, to which Benny grunts, his body buckling just slightly. I follow it with a quick right to the side of his face, followed by another, and another. His temple snaps back after one ruthless punch below his chin, sweat flying from his hair like shrapnel.
When he makes the coward’s move to clinch, I shove him back, giving him space. Let him think I’m giving him a chance.
Once he’s caught his breath, Benny lunges again, aiming for my gut. I evade him, grab his arm, and twist it. He lets out a high, piercing wail, but I don’t let go. I pull him toward me and slam my elbow into his nose. Blood sprays after the sound of a sickening crunch. He stumbles back, clutching his face, eyes wide.
“You done already?” I ask, voice low, taunting.
He snarls through the blood and rage, and charges at me like a bull. His rage is so blinding that it’s child’s play for me to sidestep away from him, causing him to crash into the corner post. Rookie mistake.
I move in before he can gather himself. A flurry of punches—two to the ribs, one to the gut, and an uppercut that lifts him off his feet for half a second before he crashes back down, knees buckling.
I circle him as he gasps for air, while one of his hands is dragging across the ropes to keep himself upright, and ask, “Still think you’re going to knock me the fuck down?”
Benny charges at me again, determined to keep intact whatever single shred of dignity he has left. He’s the best kind of fighter to defeat—desperate and drowning.
I catch his fist midair, twist his wrist until I hear it pop, then knee him hard in the stomach. He folds like a lawn chair. I grab him by the back of the head and slam his face into my knee. Once. Twice. Until I lose count. It’s only when he goes limp that I let him drop. He hits the mat face-first, his arms splayed. Blood drips from his nose and mouth, pooling beneath him.
Still, I wait. Sometimes they get back up. The ones that have more to prove, at least.
Benny twitches, groans, and tries to push himself up, but to no avail. I crouch beside him, grab a fistful of his sweat-soaked hair, and turn his face to mine. His eyes are swollen, barely open. His lips move, but no words come out. Only blood.
“Stay down,” I tell him. “You don’t want what happens next.”
Benny listens, his body sagging, defeated, broken. He is out for the count while the demon in me purrs, satisfied with how we’ve mangled his face.
I rise, wiping the blood from my knuckles on my shorts as two Fibonacci’s soldiers climb into the ring and drag Benny out like a carcass.
The silent crowd disperses instantly. No one else wants to follow in Benny’s footsteps tonight. Tomorrow, maybe. But not tonight. Tonight’s show of force is enough to dismay them into trying. It’s almost as if they, too, could spot the difference between being me anditin the ring.
I don’t acknowledge any of them as I duck under the ropes and step out of the ring. Benny has served his purpose. He’s fed the beast. And now I can just be.
As my feet hit the gym floor, I feel those honey-brown eyes locked on mine. Izzie. Her brows are pulled tight in concern, as if she’s trying to understand why I do this to myself every night. As if she’s trying to read my every thought. And if she keeps staring like that… she just might.
Why is she looking at me like that? Like she cares?
The question still burns in my head when she tilts hers to me, a silent order for me to follow. Maybe it’s exhaustion, or just plain curiosity. Either way, I follow her into my grandfather’s office without a word.
