There is an animalistic passion going through me now, a new level of ferocious determination aimed directly at the destruction of your every fighting whim. As my fists pummel through your body, the gloves impacting thoroughly with every single blow. The sound of the gloves almost setting a rhythm, the beat of your destruction being heard by everyone in attendance, as their cheers seem to correlate with every hit, as if responding to the beat I'm pounding out.
The look that grows in your eyes, visible only as they bulge out of your head on every impact, portrays the picture perfectly. The fear that creeps out from your eyes encompasses your entire body, growing slacker and slacker in resistance to my whims, resulting in a simple prayer that the suffering ends shortly... and it does. As my glove re-introduces itself to your chin, snapping your head back, reality seems to slip from your grasp, your mouthguard now ripped from your mouth. You teeter on your feet, against the turnbuckle for a second, the light from your eyes, or what was hiding behind the fear no longer present, an absent void in its place, as you slowly slump down towards the canvas, your feet slipping out from under you.
This is when the volunteers, or at least I believe them to be the volunteers, then jump into the ring, I can't see them, but I can feel movement through the canvas, and it isn't yours. Before anything, I feel numerous hands grab at my arms from behind me, pulling me back. I fight it instinctively for a second until I see the announcer step in front of me. This is over. It was the second you stepped into the ring with me.
I finally allow myself to come out of my defensive shell... embracing the cheers of the crowd for the first time as I scream out in triumph, my mouthguard flying out of my mouth as I raise both of my hands high over my head, jumping around in the center of the ring. "YEEEEAAAAAHHHHHH!" I scream, lost for words at the moment as the self-proclaimed announcer goes about his spiel over the megaphone.
One of the volunteers calms me down for long enough to remove my gloves, tossing them into the corner of the ring, ready to be used again, as he walks me to the side; the crowd still in an uproar over the match, the noise inspiring.
This had been my first ever visit at the 'Big Summer Blowout', but with how my day has evolved over time, and the match I've enjoyed in its electric atmosphere... I can hardly wait for next years. I can't say the same for my foe... who, having just been splashed with cold water by the volunteers, was now only just coming back around... she may not be so eager to rush back again next year.
