The Eyes of a Fighter

I catch my breath as I take in the arena. Thousands of people, in the stands, waiting for a battle. On a table in front of the stands, I see a giant trophy with a person doing a high-kick, with his fists to his side. In five minutes, I'll be on the stage fighting for a title. In five minutes, I'll be fighting for a reputation. In five minutes, I'll be fighting for who I am. I take a step forward and I remember to breathe.

Cover made by: Broken Inside and meg1


2. Chapter 2

"Mom!" I rush into the house with the flier in my hands. "Did you see this?"

"Yes, I saw your Grand Master pin it up earlier." She said doing the dishes.

Huh, so he wants me in the competition?

I walked over to the fridge and pulled out a water bottle.

"Did you have a good practice today?" Mom asked.

"Yeah, I finally got the tornado kick down," I took a drink of my water.

"That's great!" She exclaimed.

"Right?" I exclaim. "Wendell also said I have limbs made of iron,"

"How hard did you kick him?" She asked.

"Pretty hard," I said, taking another drink of my water.

"Ouch," She said putting a plate in the dish washer.

I nodded. "I'm gonna head upstairs and start my homework,"

"Okay," She said turning back to the mini T.V. to watch her soaps.

When I get into my room, I see my reflection in the mirror.

I'm wearing my comfy black yoga pants, and an orange Waynesville t-shirt. Tiger colors. The make-up I put on, always ends up fading by the time I get to practice. My long, light brown hair is pulled into a tight ponytail. Aside from the bruise on my right cheek(thanks Wendell), nothing looks out of the ordinary, except for my eyes. My eyes are a light brown, everyone says they're really pretty. But I see them differently. My eyes are warm, yet cold. They are wired, full of curiosity, determined, tough, darting to any sense of movement. Just how a fighter's eyes should look like.

I plop down on my bed and get my Algebra1 book out and start on my math homework.

Oh math, how I hate you so. . .

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