*With Webook back up I snagged some flash fiction I did before it goes down again. This one I actually placed amongst the winners in this challenge to write about an injury, and got many great comments of support. Enjoy.*
White-hot needles shoot through my arm from the doc taping my fist. My face is Everest, never changing. Been dealing with it for three years now, what’s another hour?
It wasn’t always like this. There was a time when I enjoyed the fight. The smell of sweat, the electricity of the crowd, the tremor of fear when I stepped in the ring was enough to make me feel alive. Now it reminds me that I’m forty-six and on the wrong side of life’s clock.
Doc says my right hand can shatter, said it’s held together with duct tape and prayers. He’s right, it’s half-dead already. But what else can I do?
His face is grim as he finishes. Tape’s on tighter than usual. Sly dog tried to make me quit. Can’t do that. Too many debts. Any luck I’ll die in the ring tonight