Flint bowed his head, taking deep breaths as he rolled his fingers, feeling the damaged bones in his knuckles roll against eachother. His dark eyes watched as his blood spilled over the fresh wounds. Maybe the fact he was so spacey was because of the repeated blows to the head. Maybe that's why he was watching his hands and not the fist flying at his head.
He heard the punch before he felt it, the wet smack of flesh on flesh, felt his flesh ripple with the impact, felt his head jerk to a side instinctually as he staggered, shaking his head and trying to clear the cotton from his eyes before bringing his hands back up into a defensive position.
Sounds started leaking back in, the screams of the ring of people, screaming at him or his opponent to win, to get them money. He licked his bloodied lips carefully, bobbing out of the way of another punch, aimed at his bared shoulder and he struck back, a quick motion that sent his hand flying at the other man's face. He heard the satisfying crunch of the other man's nose breaking. He felt himself smile as he brought his hand back, jabbing forward again, and again, and again.
Before he knew it, the man was on the ground, his arms curled around his head and his knees against his chest, crying out in pain as Flint kicked at him, screaming words he didn't remember. He could taste blood, maybe his own, maybe his opponents. He felt a hand on his shoulder and he stopped, the trained bloodlust fading from his tired, aching limbs.
His trainer, his coach, took him softly by the arm and led him to one of the car bonnets. It was now that Flint could feel the grass of the field between his toes. He always preffered to fight barefoot. He could feel that one of his toes was broken.
He carefully sat on the hood of the car, tilting his head back and letting his coach shine a flashlight into his face, watch his pupils dilate, wipe away the blood, check his nose wasn't too badly broken, check his teeth were all in place.
"You got lucky, kid. A minor concussion and a black eye. Coulda been a lot worse."
Flit shrugged, giving a gentle smirk.
"Was a job well done though, ay boss?" He chimed, hissing in pain as the coach pulled on one of his ears.
"Don't be cocky, lad."
He heard the punch before he felt it, the wet smack of flesh on flesh, felt his flesh ripple with the impact, felt his head jerk to a side instinctually as he staggered, shaking his head and trying to clear the cotton from his eyes before bringing his hands back up into a defensive position.
Sounds started leaking back in, the screams of the ring of people, screaming at him or his opponent to win, to get them money. He licked his bloodied lips carefully, bobbing out of the way of another punch, aimed at his bared shoulder and he struck back, a quick motion that sent his hand flying at the other man's face. He heard the satisfying crunch of the other man's nose breaking. He felt himself smile as he brought his hand back, jabbing forward again, and again, and again.
Before he knew it, the man was on the ground, his arms curled around his head and his knees against his chest, crying out in pain as Flint kicked at him, screaming words he didn't remember. He could taste blood, maybe his own, maybe his opponents. He felt a hand on his shoulder and he stopped, the trained bloodlust fading from his tired, aching limbs.
His trainer, his coach, took him softly by the arm and led him to one of the car bonnets. It was now that Flint could feel the grass of the field between his toes. He always preffered to fight barefoot. He could feel that one of his toes was broken.
He carefully sat on the hood of the car, tilting his head back and letting his coach shine a flashlight into his face, watch his pupils dilate, wipe away the blood, check his nose wasn't too badly broken, check his teeth were all in place.
"You got lucky, kid. A minor concussion and a black eye. Coulda been a lot worse."
Flit shrugged, giving a gentle smirk.
"Was a job well done though, ay boss?" He chimed, hissing in pain as the coach pulled on one of his ears.
"Don't be cocky, lad."