MMA

I stand within the confines of a cold, steel cage. The metal fencing holds no heat. It holds no emotion. The normal boxing ring floor has been replaced with a stiff, unforgiving floor. The cage’s light comes only from a single spotlight that hangs somewhere high above me. The light barely seeps out of the cage. It was as if the light were pointed at a black hole. 

There is a stadium outside of the twisted ring. I peer out, but everything is black and lifeless. I look up at the light and hope for some inspiration or warmth, but I am only temporarily blinded.

I am soon joined in the ring by a referee and another fighter. The yellow spots in my vision conceal their faces. The female fighter is nearly a head taller than I am. Her pristine uniform seems finer than silk. I could imagine her attending a fine feast or ball. Her pink gown accentuates her muscles.

I stand in the blue uniform my father gave me. It is tattered and torn. Its cotton threads are hanging loose at the edges. My kick boxing gloves are just as worn with finger holes starting to fray. The gloves have seen decades of fighting and the padding barely protects my knuckles. But in the other corner, the woman stands with her new gloves. They are of the highest quality and name brand. I cannot compare.

I look to the referee, hoping that he might be on my side. He looks at me blankly with his red eyes and then looks at the other woman. His outfit is just as spectacular as hers. His whistle sparkles and reflects the light. The black and white stripes on his shirt are as different as night and day. Such a judge cannot side with the unworthy. He calls us to the center of the cage.

I have no hope.

We bump fists and the fight begins. She flies at me and throws me to the mat. There is no time for me to shield myself. She pins me to the mat and uses her body to hold me down. I lay on my back struggling to get my hands over my face. She hits me with the left and then the right. Her fists come at me mercilessly. I manage to cover my face and try desperately to wiggle out from under her. I lift up with my legs in an attempt to shake her off but to no avail. She continues to punch at my head.

I thrust sharply up with my legs and manage to throw her balance off. I slip out from under her, but there isn’t much time. I have to counterattack or at least defend myself.

We have both gotten to our feet. She throws a punch, which I dodge, but her right leg meets my ribs. The pain is sharp. She immediately follows with a left hook. I can feel something trickle down the right side of my face. I am sure that it isn’t sweat.

Unbeknownst to myself, I have somehow moved away from her. I have placed myself up against the cold fence. I can feel the metal digging into my back as I push myself into the fence.

She is coming at me with rage in her eyes. I roll to my left and run to the other side of the ring. The cage is big enough that I can avoid her.

I dart from side to side, but sweat and blood are running down my face and into my eyes. I clutch my ribs and gasp for air as I run. My pace is beginning to slow. I glance behind me to see a most discouraging sight. She is unaffected and the few beads of sweat even glisten like diamonds. I have to stay away from her, but my energy is dwindling and my body is failing me.

I can hear her bare feet slapping against the stiff floor. She is right behind me. She finally catches me and grabs my hair. The strands wrap around her fingers and my hair tangles in to knots within her fists and catch on her gloves. I am at her disposal- there is no escape.

She yanks me backwards. I lose my balance and fall. She thrusts her knee up into my back. I swear as something in my back pops. I faintly hear the referee’s whistle blow through the pain. I drop to the floor as she lets go of my knotted hair. I lie there for a moment watching the light blur. I then roll onto my stomach and manage to get to my hands and knees. I spit out blood as I crawl to what could be described as a corner. I lean myself against the fencing and cry. My bloodied face is washed by tears and sweat.

I sigh, knowing that this isn’t over. A bell will soon ring through the air and demand that I meet my opponent. As I wait for the ringing to start, I hear the faint sound of my name being called. I turn and press my face into the fence. I stare out with what vision I have left.

The darkness outside of the ring melts away and I see my friends chanting my name. They are holding up signs with verses and quotes and I am reminded of who I really am and what I am truly capable of. I am not defined by the clothes I am wearing- I am not my weaknesses.

I look down at the small pool of sweat beside me and see my face. There is only one cut on my right eyebrow. It is rather small and has already stopped bleeding. I wouldn’t even need a stitch. The pain in my chest and back has subsided and I can breathe again. Though I exhausted myself, my injuries are only minor.

I suddenly have a fighting spirit. I use the fence to pull myself up. I straighten my uniform and fix my hair. I look to the referee on my right. He stands solemnly watching me. His red eyes are fierce, but softer than before. He holds the silver whistle to his pursed lips. He looks as he had at the beginning of the fight. His uniform is without wrinkle and his brow is free of sweat. His perfection frightens me.

I look at the fighter in the other corner and see something very different. I notice a loose thread on her uniform. It’s not the only one. Her whole outfit is covered in them. Her gloves are coming apart at the seams. Despite the name plastered on them, the quality is lacking. I wonder if I had seen her correctly to begin with. As I am looking at her anew, I realize that she is not what I thought she was. She is short in stature and her muscular build is only a rouse.

We meet in the middle and bump fists again. She comes at me like before, but her punches are aimless. They are the rote punches of someone who has never been in a fight. She is like a programmed robot, a computer stuck on repeat. I only need to step to the side to avoid her advances. I throw all my weight into a single punch aimed at her right temple. My fist meets her face.

She freezes and stands perfectly still—she neither breathes nor sweats. Whatever has given her life has stopped for now. I approach the now motionless fighter and examine her. I look into her face and notice the color of her eyes. They are the same as mine. There is even a faded scar beneath her right eye, but her face is distorted and grotesque. It is like looking into a funhouse mirror. How had I not seen this before.

I wait for the referee to call me the victor, but he does not. I look around and notice the referee standing silent in the center of the ring- his whistle still in hand. I go to exit the ring, but there is neither a way in, nor a way out. I realize that I am trapped inside the ring with this mechanical being. It may not breathe, but it is not dead. I am safe for now, but I do not know when the robot will receive a new command to follow.