And that was it. Something broke inside me. Three quick steps and I was there. I swung. Every bit of strength, every bit of hope and fear and anger and rage, every bit of social injustice, was in that fist hurled his way. It landed flush on his left cheek with a deadening thud. The skin broke. He fell backward onto the glass coffee table. It snapped cleanly in two right down the center, and the sight of it only fueled the fiery red surging through me. I thought about pouncing on top of him. Instead I sprinted toward his bedroom and shouldered through the door. It opened with ease. I slammed it shut, locked it behind me. Jeff yelled something I couldn’t hear from the living room. The bathroom door was closed. I kicked straight through it. It busted away from the hinges and crashed forward; the knob broke away and ricocheted straight back and off the wall behind me.

I had guessed correctly. My bag was on the floor in the empty space between the toilet and shower. I grabbed it and rushed out. Jeff kicked the bedroom door open. As he stumbled in I dropped my bag and swung again. I caught him just above the left eye this time. Another cut opened. He fell. Blood ran down both sides of his face. I pounced on top of him, a flurry of punches to his face and the back of his head. Both of us yelling and screaming obscenities. Neither of us hearing them through our own rage, a rage that had been building within me for a very long time. He threw an errant punch and I clasped his head and arm in a front headlock, clamping down hard with perfect technique, another homage to my days on the mat.

“Don’t you ever talk about my mom, you piece of shit! I’ll kill you!” I screamed. “I swear to god I’ll fucking kill you!” I squeezed as tightly as I could. He couldn’t talk or breathe, couldn’t so much as make a peep. I buried my chin in the middle of his back for better leverage, cutting off the blood flow to his brain. He tried grabbing me, tried grabbing anything that might help. I pushed my knee into the back of his head and this put an end to it. The knuckle of my right thumb was flush against his Adam’s apple. I could feel its resistance. Another pound of pressure would probably snap the cartilage in two. What would happen then?

“What about all that Mr. State Champion talk now, huh motherfucker? How about your pissing contest? That’s all you are, Jeff. Big talk with Daddy’s money. A lot of good it’s doing you now, huh?”