Melissa gave me plenty of time to get up, taunting me with her superior look as she loomed over me—then said, “Enough rest…get up and take your punishment like a woman—if you can…” and backed off to the neutral corner, watching me, enjoying my struggle.
As I slowly, painfully rose, she exulted in knowing that every bruise, each bit of blood, and the raw agony it cost me just to breathe, had been dished out in less than 5 minutes of fighting. (Or, more accurately, a minute and a half of fighting—the rest was much more of a one sided beating than a fight.)
And seeing me rise, she now knows how crazy stubborn I am—people that have taken that much from her usually stay down. To her, this is paradise, or close to it—a tough opponent who’s badly outclassed, that she can paint with bruises and blood as an artist paints her canvas.
This is going to be a long night for me; I’m determined not to give her the ultimate triumph of breaking my will to fight—making me admit that I’m too afraid to get back up and face her relentless red gloves again.
Now that I’m up, she moved in—time for some pain. Leading off with a hard right—one of her most effective punches—she blasts me in the face, transferring all the power directly to the corner of my mouth, to hurt and tear the flash—not my jaw, to knock me out. She can hit me exactly where she wants, and she’s choosy right now.
If I had any chance to recover enough to fight back, it’s gone. The punch knocked me back on my heels, my weight almost entirely on my back leg. I can’t maneuver—off balance, and I’m bound for the ropes unless she lets me go. She’s going to add more pain to the beating I’ve already taken…
