I think I might be insane.

No, this isn’t a confession. Fuck you. I didn’t mean to kill him. I didn’t want to kill him. I just…

Didn’t care.

* * *

The hook comes in haggard. I duck beneath it. He’s tired. I’m tired. It’s the tenth round and we’re in-fighters. We’ve been in-fighting. He swings again; I sidestep. A camera flashes and I’m blind and I don’t see the cross. I feel it—my lip is bleeding like a bloody lip and there’s another camera flash, and someone, maybe Marcie, shouts my name, and I growl and I’m pissed and I twist and I hit him.

* * *

Square in the nose, I guess.

You know, I always thought—can I put my feet here? Yeah? Okay, great—I always thought the whole bit about puncturing a guy’s brain with his nose bone was a myth, right? Like, something to keep kids from fighting one another.

Nah. Sorry. I popped a hole straight through his fleshy cerebral bits. I was ushered away pretty quick from the whole scene, but I heard you could see part of it—bone, brain, whatever—protruding out the back of his skull.

Helluva punch though, right?

* * *

The cameras are silent now. The people scream. There’s red on the white of the ring and I’m numb. His coach is at the guy’s side, propping up his head, calling for help. I call for help too, I think, but the room’s sort of spinning, and then I realize I’m spinning, around and around and around and around and around and—

* * *

—feel a thing. Not a single fuckin’ thing. “A freak accident,” they told me afterwards. “Nothing you could’ve done.”

I could've felt something, maybe. I could’ve said sorry, or… or I dunno. That’s something for you to figure out, doc.

Good luck with that.