Melissa’s been beating me up badly, hitting me almost at will; I’ve only landed one or two punches in return. She’s thoroughly enjoying herself; she has a mean streak a mile wide.
And the last barrage put me on the canvas hard, my head spinning, aching wherever those hammers she calls fists have plowed into my now very tender body and head. Many fighters have been in a similar position; all the great ones will struggle to get up. (So will a lot of ordinary ones…)
I do have an extraordinarily hard head, an ability to absorb a pounding and keep going—but this is a bit much, even for me. But—Melissa’s enjoying this. She doesn’t just want to knock me out, but to make sure that I know I lost decisively—to knock out my will to fight, not just break my body.
So—she doesn’t think I can beat a ten count—so she’s not counting yet; she’s staying close, so a count doesn’t start. When she thinks I’ll be able to get up, she’ll back off and start to count, wondering if I’ll get up or not.
Will I?
