FOURTEEN

(Part of a series of stories, experiences, memories and observations from my life...)

The blood ran down his nose, hot and sticky, as the first punch landed. He stumbled back, his feet wobbly and unsteady, like a newborn foal. He didn’t feel pain, just shock like jumping into an icy stream and feeling frozen and numb with your senses suddenly awake in a white heat. 

He regained his balance and turned sideways, his right shoulder raised to protect his chin, trying to jab ineffectually. The circle of boys around him were screaming, bloodlust inherited from a gladiatorial age, but he couldn’t hear their words, just the ringing inside his head. He moved his left shoulder in and swung his arm in a hook towards his opponent’s jaw, desperately clutching at straws like a drowning man, and as he did so he caught a glimpse of the other boy’s fist as it smashed against his lips. As he felt his mouth fill with the coppery taste of blood, the boy wished he didn’t have to fight. 
He wished he could give up. 
He wished he could run. 
But he had no choice. 
He was fourteen. And he needed to prove that he was a man.