Ruining Xenon

p r o l o g u e —devil's silhouette n o v a • • • IT'S A CASUAL thing noting the pixelated fragments flying away to the background whenever stepping inside the circle, and just before the signalling bell it slides back swiftly in to full focus. I observe the bulky man growl as he rolls his shoulders pretty confidently. His menacing gaze is concentrated at me, nothing and no one else found at the dim lighted area. Chanting the loudest was what the large crowd behind the patterned irons doing, for the one they believed would win with struggle or without it; with a swollen eye or a bruised stomach, or even a continuously bleeding nose I would need to wait a whole day for it to heal. In this gather, that's not what matters. It's either winning and be someone - unknown, hooded, masked too, but still knowing I'm someone - or losing, get banned off of the list to survive at the infamous Underground Fighting Circuit, and be just the useless, bullied mute geek with ugly scars everywhere that no one would give two s**t about. Surely would I prefer the former one within any situation. Not even for the sake of winning the fight, but for my soul to get away the cruel world busting every good deed I tend to do or say, forcing me to regret each of it just afterwards. For f*****g life, every time it rejected me taking off to hell or heaven, where I'm aware I never belong to and the strangely inexplicable reason I'm not buried eight feet underneath the dirt I now still step on about f*****g already. The bell dings thrice in its usual melodical order and it's the only sound able to drag everything back to the present. The rest of the voices yelling out praises, the entire cheers, just fade away instantly. Ears perked up a little at the pats the howls cheering me on where oppressing against my stiff shoulders, I grin a certain grin no one could catch a sight of, while for once letting myself be lost in listening intently to the feelings sparking at the pit of my stomach where tiny butterflies kept swirling inside of a little much nervously. I may be a known 'Xenon' here, inside the fighting cages, though it's always Nova that I has been longer to live as. It's simply a nature of me that I can never blatantly disregard and seemed to accept to live with. I'm Xenon, the broken girl who always lives as someone else she doesn't f*****g know a tiny bit about - lying anonymously as a skilled, constantly hooded underground fighter whose gender isn't known, the other face being the pathetic one living life of a f*****g stupid hell for whatever sin she has committed through a past life she doesn't even believe of existing - and if there's only one thing I know for sure right now, is that the man raging like bolted thunder towards my figure after his so called unexpected surge, is getting no other medals but the plenteous, unforgettable ones from my hardened fists ready to go on full dangerous rams any time soon. Closing my eyes for the split of a second, I inhale air of pure rage and thought of every freaking trash that is my life cascading down the clear windows of a throbbing memory. The times I was slapped, collided and pushed, punched and let on to roll over the floor hopelessly as everyone guffawed at the stupid trash laying on the ground and knew nothing else to do— And when I open the blues I owned, they were two spitting volcanoes. There we f*****g play again, folks.