By Xenia King
Within the four corners, I fall prey.
The alpha—the predator, stalks silently with a hint of smug and sheer confidence. He pounces quicker than a cheetah. I try to dodge, but I’m not fast enough. He pounds his fist on my temple. I see stars and a blur of motion and color.
Coated in black and white stripes, the referee starts the countdown from ten.
Three, two, one.
The bell rings.
My opponent prances around with his bronze yet broken skin and fury red mane, while I lay limp, breathing heavily with a bleeding face.
KO.
Better luck next time.
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