Concussed
I remember a fight.
It was August. The reasons for it all are but a fever dream to me now. Half remembered in a pressure cooker of summer humidity, heat, and emotion. We flailed our limbs at each other like wild beasts, my combatant and I. A flurry of half-connected blows and curses amongst the well tempered lawns of the suburban wastes. A demilitarized zone of manicured grass separating the houseland from the farmland. The morning light scattered off clumps of dew clinging to the grass like the shipwreck damned. We trampled such things with ill regard, blinded with but bile and vitriol in our hearts and minds. The air was as paste, forcing each reckless movement to become a terrible exertion. We moved as if suspended under the weight of oceans. But youth and vigor have no patience for such chains, as blows turned to bloodshed. He landed a square hit on me. I’ll be the first to admit. I left myself vulnerable and paid in spades. His knuckles caressed my sweat soaked temple before hammering down with the force of an iron rod.
