Once again I stride down the long white halls. I'm still sweaty from my session and my run here. It's been a few days since I've been here. I wish it was longer though- God, I hate this place. The days I spend away have been used on training mainly. I guess you could call me a lonely man. Very few people are close to me. The word 'friend' is the word most likely to get you fucked over by someone. I learned that lesson long ago- there isn't anyone who fits the bill.

They might be all of those things, but I don't like to use the word friend to describe them. It'll just get men down me down when they betray me one day. And they will, I know it. Calling them friends would make them seem too close to me—that isn't only a bad thing for me, but for them as well. I'll always have to watch myself, not to let anyone get too close. Many people would also describe a friend as someone you trust. I show trust to no one —not even my old man. Trust makes you weak.

My sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor as I turn a corner. My sweatshirt is damp with sweat and a bit of dust rain. I feel around in my pocket to find my iPod. I find it in the left pocket of my sweatpants. While I walk, I turn off the Metallica and pull the headphones out of my ears. I look up and see my path is fairly clear, like usual. No matter how many people there are in this hallway, everybody seems to choose the overly crowded part of the hallway. I guess some people would categorize me as a scary guy. If I had to be fairly honest, I would be offended if they didn't. It's not a new thing for me. It's easier for me when people think of me as a monster. I have to beat up fewer guys because they think they can't possibly take me down. I've been fighting ever since I was born. Even before I graced this earth, my mother fought off my father to protect me, her unborn child. Fighting is in my blood.

The young nurse who helped me find my dad a few days ago is standing behind the counter looking at the telephone blankly while chewing on her gum open-mouthed. I guess the only good thing I can say about her is, that there isn't a cunning or sinister thing about her. I'm thinking about throwing myself on the ground just to avoid her she's so damn demanding. Before I have the chance, she's already seen me and hooks her arm in mine. I look down to glare at her with furrowed brows. I try to decide whether to just throw her off me, but I might need her later. She's forced to let go of me when we reach the door. I can barely get through the door alone, so getting through with her on my arm is impossible.

My old man is awake and clearly drunk, but what did I expect? If they had taken his Martini away at once it would have killed him. He's just sitting on the wooden chair in his underwear and a white t-shirt. The hospital is not even close to warm, so seeing him sitting here without any pants or sweatshirt makes me slightly concerned.

"They're taking my Martini away, Jason, they're taking it away!" he sobs pathetically. I look at him blankly. I mean, what did he expect? I sit quietly.

"It had to end some time," I answer him, not really concerned about his sobbing and drooling. It happens every damn time he drinks. He either gets sentimental or he gets angry—I enjoy neither.

"Pops, put on some trousers." I grasp a pair of sweats from the closet and throw them at him. He doesn't even try to catch them he just lets them hit him in the head and drop to the floor.

"Jason! You aren't the boss! The president is the boss!" he sneers angrily at me. I guess if you aren't used to it, you could easily take offense in some of the things my old man says. Me? Not anymore—I'm used to his words and his fists. I draw a deep breath, walk over to him, and grasp his shoulder harshly.

"Pops, listen to me. Put on those damn trousers." I growl lowly at him, I hate that I always have to be such an asshole around him, but my temper is wearing thin. The old man stands up, leaning against the wall as he puts on the trousers. After so many years I'm still impressed that he can stand on one leg after a whole Martini bottle. I wouldn't bat an eye if the police asked him to walk in a straight line for a DUI check. I'm sure the old man would pass.

"Tell me, son! Did you get in at that secret gig next week? Secret gig! Isn't really much of a secret if they tell you," he mumbles the last part quietly. He only remembers parts of what I say, if he remembers at all. I'd hoped he'd forgotten all about it, since it's supposed to be secret. Secret and discrete are not words in dad's vocabulary. He's almost like a kid; whenever he gets a new word, he'll use it in every sentence. Let me tell you, it get's damn tiring after a while. Drunken people and children are pretty much the same, not that I've much experience with kids, but I do with drunks. From children and drunken people you hear the truth and only the truth. Children were never my thing; they always reminded me of my pops after a long day of drinking. A shiver runs down my spine at the thought—a long day was always the worst. At least, now I know the bruises I have are some I've inflicted on myself, or another fighter has inflicted. But luckily I can always say, "You should have seen the other guy." I've been a fighter all my life and I guess that's what I'll always be.

I've got my looks from my pops, or that's what my mother used to tell me. Having his looks is not exactly a good thing. I always look quite rough even when I try to smile—smiling is not a thing I'm used to, I don't have much to smile about, never had. Another trait I've inherited from my pops is my stature, my wide shoulders and muscular structure. I had both even before I started training for real. Let's just say, I'm not the type of guy the girls gaze after longingly. I'm more the type of guy that scares them away, even before I get to open my mouth. Not that it would help me anyway. I've never been good with words. They just seem to get stuck in my mouth and I end up saying something mean—another trait of my fathers. His mean words and abusive behavior scares women away. He always says it's hard to find a girl that can take a punch nowadays.

I guess I'm just one of those people, who'll die alone, not that I mind at all. Sure I'm good at adapting, but to adapt to some mad woman who wants to change the curtains every five minutes because she's bored, I don't think so. Women are creatures I'll never understand, at all. I don't think I'll ever be able to settle down with a woman, because every time I think I can, I'll get bored or irritated with her.

My pops is still blabbering on with some drunken talk. I feel a pain starting to build in my temples, I start rubbing them in circular motions, willing the headache to stop. Man, I'm so tired. I'm running way to low on sleep. My pops settles on the bed, quickly falling asleep while snoring open-mouthed. I sigh, staring at his form for a long while, once again promising I'll never be like him. That's my biggest fear, ending up like him, a monster-like creature. But maybe I already am.

I leave the room and shut the door after me, muffling his loud snores. For a long while I stand in the hall, awkwardly leaning against the closed door. I hear the clicking of heals on the linoleum floor and quickly look up to determine where it's coming from, more importantly who it's coming from. I feel my fingers itch when I see the young nurse, face full of makeup and gum in her mouth, walking my way. I quickly spring into action, walking to the door across the hall and opening the door. Sadly, just before I can hide myself in the other room she sees me.

"Oh, hello? Mister?" she yells out in her high-pitched voice that almost makes my eardrums burst. Why the hell does she do that? Is popping my eardrums really necessary? Damn woman. I turn to look at her with a glare, which she clearly just ignores. She links her arm in mine and I can feel her long fake nails against my bicep. I furrow my brows at her. Who does she think she is?

"So, since your dad is asleep and, you know, not going to wake up any time soon, then how about we go out for a coffee?" I stare at her with wonder in my eyes, how can I turn her down again and again and she just ignores it? I untangle her from my arm and take a few threatening steps towards her, she quickly backs up. Her eyes turn wide and I can see her brown eyes shining with unshed tears. I lay my hand on her shoulder and give it a hard squeeze, not hard enough to hurt her but enough to scare her.

"Might I ask, whose throat this is? And is it valued?" I growl lowly at her, puffing up my chest to seem more threatening. She quickly turns on her heals and hurries down the hall, back to the desk. I can almost hear her sigh in relief when she's safely behind the desk. I chuckle quietly, at her scared face, and why wouldn't she be scared? A look from me can send most people cowering back to their place. I step inside the cold room. I look around wondering how it got so cold in here. I look at the frozen figure on the bed. She's lying in the same position as always. Just across from me a window is wide open. I quickly walk across the room and close it; I bend down to turn up the heat. I shake my head angrily, why would they let her freeze like that? I walk over to the bed to touch her hand—it's ice-cold. Her lips are pale and her breath is uneven.

I zip down my sweatshirt and lay it across her torso, hoping it'll give her some warmth. Where the hell do they keep blankets? I walk over and rip open a closet and a duvet falls out, only thanks to my reflexes I catch it. I stare at it for a long while; they must be shit stupid to not give her this, instead of a shitty blanket. I frown angrily. And they say doctors are smart. Even a damn cage fighter knows how to take care of a knocked-out person, and this is not the way.

I gently spread the duvet over her body. As I tuck her in I realize what I'm doing. Tucking her in? What am I? Her mom maybe? I shake my head at my actions. I feel so stupid. I look down at all the scars that cover my hands; many of them cover my face as well. I sit down on the wooden chair, still looking at my hands. After a few minutes I realize what I'm doing. I shake my head as if that would rid my mind of the thoughts I had. The magazine is where I left it last time, so I just settle on reading all of the meaningless articles once again. To be honest, I don't understand half of the things in the magazine. After a while of just staring at the same page I put down the magazine and look around in the room. The white walls and gray floors make the room feel so cold and different from what I would want to spend my time in. Not a single picture, not a single colorful thing.

But the thing that bothers me the most is the fact that there are no flowers. No flowers means that nobody has visited her, or at least not in a while. How could someone just forget her? Sure I don't like my pops at all, but that doesn't mean I won't visit him. Her family doesn't seem to care at all. I would rather be alone than be with someone who doesn't like me at all. Then again, I'm not the person people use to get my money, because I don't have much. I use most before the month is up, and that's when I do the big gigs. When I fight the big gigs, I always win.

One of my bad traits, just like my father, is that I have an unruly temper. From time to time my temper flares up dangerously and I just have to get the anger out. I go into an animalistic place where I can no longer come back from unless I let off some steam, which usually leads to bloodshed.

I catch a glimpse of a doctor as he walks by. I quickly spring into action and open the door just as he's about to pass by. At first he looks like he's going to scold me for surprising him, but that thought quickly vanishes when he gets a good look at me.

"How come you let this girl lay in there with an open window when no one was going to come for her?" I fold my arms over my chest as I speak. I can see, that I'm clearly intimidating him, but why should I care. The doctor opens his mouth and starts blabbering about something, that I've got no chance at understanding.

"Why do you pretend that you're talking to someone who's educated in curing people?" I ask him while taking a step closer.

"In fact, why don't you pretend like you're talking to the one that puts people in the hospital? You know, you don't even have to pretend," I growl angrily at him. He acts as if he's my superior just because he has a fancy education. He might be one slick motherfucker, but he can be slick all he wants, it won't change a thing. I want my answers. People have become accustomed to just nodding whenever a doctor opens his mouth. I feel bad for the doctors too though; they have to live their whole life giving people diagnoses in fruit, because no one ever really understands centimeters from inches. If a doctor says you have a 7 centimeter lump, no one will ever understand the severity of it all, but if he says you have a lump at the size of a grapefruit everything seems to sink in much faster. The thing is just, I've been here way too much to just shut up and listen. I don't have the time to sit here and stare deeply into his eyes to find out how freaking bad it is, I just want to know. People should be more straight with doctors, just tell them that you don't fucking care about all their fancy terms, all you want to know how it happened, and how bad it is. We want to know how bad it is, without getting the diagnoses in fruit or some weird term. And last but not least, we want to know how to get rid of it.

"Um, well, sir, I wouldn't know, it's the nurse's job to do such things." He tries to pass it off as the nurse's fault, and it may have been, but scaring him a little bit more won't hurt.

I look him over with a raised eyebrow, assessing him. He's a puny man. Looks like me when I was 12. So I decide to let him off the hook. I throw him a smile, which makes him even more uncomfortable. Now that I think about it, my smile always did tend to look like a threat.

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