fighter

“I give up.” Even as they words left his mouth, even as he wiped the umpteenth bead of sweat from his forehead, he knew he would not give up. He didn’t know why. The logical part of him told him to give up. He didn’t matter in the grand scheme. His heart refused to accept it. Not that he mattered, he didn’t: he knew that body and soul. His heart refused to accept that he could give up on something once he had begun. It had always been like this, at least as far as he remembered. When he had lost his first fight, he hadn’t given up like many of the kids on the street. He had gotten up, and kept going. The crowd faded away, and in the afternoon, he was bloodied and raw. Teeth missing, he had knocked down his opponent. Of course, the bigger boy had lost because he had grown weary. Not because he had acquired some skills to beat the latter in a matter of hours. But he had had the heart. He had not given up. And that was exactly what was pushing him on now. His heart. He sighed. His heart fluttered. I. Am. A. Pawn. He looked down at his torso as he said it, chin nesting on his chest. The muscles bulging. The body ageing. The smell of firewood, defecation, the smell of sweat, and of not having showered in a while. All permeated. The rustle of his clothes, itchy now. Heavy with the fluids of his body. He barely noticed it anymore. Barely. But still there. The taste of pine and cider in the air. The cool breeze scratching his beard. He hadn’t shaved in god knew how long. He had forgotten to keep time. It had been a while since his watch had run out of battery. Now the screen was just black. Useless. And to think he had loved it so much once. “I give up?” He asked his heart weakly. The chattering of birds, and the flapping of wings. Otherwise, silence. He grabbed the shovel and kept digging. Grunts, digs, grunts, digs. He didn’t know when he felt the eyes. But when he realized they were there, he felt he as if they had been there since the start. Eyes were all around him. He put down the shovel, wiped the sweat off his face. It was now dripping onto his eyes. Used the edge of the shirt to wipe his face. Then slowly turned around. Yellow, unblinking eyes. He kept turning. All around him. Eyes. Every shape and size. Every elevation. Some in the trees, some in the bushes. All looking at him. His heart jumped. His mind told him to race. His feet planted in fear, frozen, immobile. He revolved his torso, first to one side, and then to the other, turning, craning his neck. They were all around him. A strange kind of thrill flashed through his system. The fear was gone. It was as if he felt they wouldn’t be harmful. But he felt he should be terrified regardless.