Pride

It's starting to get dark and I'm here in this cleared space between the trees yet again. The wind shoves the leafless branches into one another and I am cold.

"I should have brought a jacket. Why do I never bring a jacket? Why am I barefoot?"

This worn patch of ground is familiar. I know every inch of it. Most of it has been beaten down by me...falling on it, then scraping, trying to get back on my feet. Who am I kidding? All of it, has been worn down by my own defeated body.

It's getting darker and the cloud-filled sky is not helping - not helping my failing sight or my morale. He always comes when it's barely light, when the wind is loud, when I'm weak and ready to leave. I came here angry, I came here strong and ready, but now I wished I hadn't come at all. He'll be here soon, and a crowd to cheer him will follow. I can do it. This time, I can do it.

"Gah!" *thud*

He took me off guard, as usual. And so I've already had my first taste of my own tongue, not to mention dirt. I'll take a second to gather myself and get back on my feet while he ravels in the thought of his own cunning wit. The ground is cold beneath my hands as I push myself to my feet with all the dignity I can muster. But there he stands, wearing the same proud smirk as always - it's clear to see that far too much thought has gone into his very presence. His posture, as though it came natural, would be ten thousand strokes of an artists brush, and his face is a sharp and mysterious expression that would not only catch the eye of any naive young girl, but screams of how well he knows his own face. Far too well, if you ask me.

I see light in the forest behind him, torches and voices. They come to see their hero fight...to see him win. But I won't stand for it. I bolt in his direction with my fists clinched and drawing back. His haughty aura makes me nauseous and I have every intention of turning his already victorious smile into and unconscious, mouth-gaping spectacle. I swing with such force that I am certain to remove his head from his shoulders, and if the air could speak, it would tell of the pain, for that was all that I hit before receiving a strike to the ribs that stopped me in time for a moment. I tried to breath, to stay on my feet, but somewhere in the confusion another blow was dealt to my face and I found myself on the ground, yet again.

The ring, as it were, is now lit quite well. Many have gathered with lanterns or lights of some kind to see the fight; friends and followers, pretty girls who have come to gaze upon their victor, even a few of his elders, proud of his achievements and supportive of his win. He walks around me, holding his hands in the air, acknowledging his peers without looking them in the eye, smiling without showing his teeth.

"I'm not like him" I think to myself "I'm not like any of them."

They chant his name, which everyone knows. On his arm is a tattoo. The letter "P", his initial, as finely drawn and as eloquent as the expensive shoes he wore to batter me with. And of course, the very moment I thought it, fine leather
and blood was forcefully fed to me.

I don't know if I am lying on my back or my face. I can't feel my face.

"Was that a tooth I just choked on?"

I wipe the blood from my face to see him standing with his arms crossed and his back turned. The crowd is dying down and many of his "friends" are smiling and patting him on the shoulders.

"No" I thought to myself "They came to see a fight and I will show them a fight, but if they came to see me lose, I will have to disappoint them this time"

Before I even thought about my actions, I had risen to my feet and knocked him to the ground. People shouted, stopped, turned to watch. They were entertained, but would they be on my side? I needed them on my side. I turned so that everyone could see my battered face in their flickering flames before leaning down to him, as though to help him up...but I didn't. I wiped the blood from my face and onto his tailored shirt. Suddenly a cheer arose from those around me and I found a new strength. I picked him up by his collar, paused to find fear in his eyes and then broke his nose with my own forehead, rousing yet another bloody cheer from the crowd before dropping him into the dirt that he had finally earned.

Soon someone brought me a drink (I must have looked like I needed it), and I held it high in a toast to my new friends. I smashed the glass on the ground to keep the energy high in the on-lookers and turned back to my opponent, where he lay in his defeat. I walked over to him, rolled him over in search of his embarrassed faced...but I did not find a broken man in overpriced clothes. Instead, I found a scared young man in a dirty t-shirt. He was missing several front teeth and was shivering in the cold night air. Then something else caught my eye; there was the eloquent "P" tattooed on my own arm.

"Wait. What happened?"

But I knew.

Now I remember this part. Now I wish the crowd weren't cheering for me. I was wrong to ever come here and think I could beat him. I am like him. I'm just like him. Heck, I'm him. From the moment I accepted his challenge I had lost. God forgive me. I always do this. I left my work to come here, and for what?

I leave the crowd, the cheers, the shame and start back. It's dark, it's cold and it's a very very long way back to where I was. Why can't I ever learn? I call out to You but I've taken myself too far away. It's silent here. I don't want to come back.

Forgive me, Father. You always do...how and why, I often wonder.