Your breaths come as large, deep gasps of air. Your body is damp and slick with sweat. The closed space of the stadium is starting to feel stifling, rather than exciting. Somewhere behind you, the flickering of the overhead light makes the shadows dance and play. The effect is eerie, now that you think about it. Your body hurts everywhere. Bruises are on all sides of you, blood is creeping down your neck and plastic is embedded into your skin near your hip. The dirt that is all but a permanent part of your skin mixes with your sweat and turns to mud in some places. You are a physical mess and the chaos in your head is a perfect match. Rage, hatred and pure hate madness are all that make up your head now. He's far from dead now but you're not worried. If not today, it will happen another day. You'll kill him in his sleep like a coward if you need to.

On your opponent's side, and therefore your horns, you see blood. His blood. It pleases you, makes you smile like an idiot and makes you want more. Unfortunately, your body aches for reprieve. You will give no more to this fight, you cannot. Even in your hallucinations it seems you are bound by the laws of physics. Each action takes energy and energy is not endless. You have come to the end of your reserves. As pretty boy spins around, you spring to the left to try and avoid another blow to the chest. It already aches from your initial charge and subsequent hits from your opponent, you don't want it damaged further. Instead, pretty boy's hooves hit solidly on your right shoulder. It is not a good feeling. There is no blood but bruising is no better. There is pain from every part of your body and, despite the fact that you are mindless and violent, you are not a masochist. You find no pleasure in pain of your own. You only wish to inflict it.

As you bound away, you limp on the limb pretty boy has just mauled so effectively. It hurts worse than you thought it did initially. Luckily, your retreat saves you from the stallion's second blow. He lunges past you, no part of him contacting you. You are thankful that at least one thing has gone right this fight. Spinning to face him then, you glare. The look is maniacal- the gaze of a crazed man. Physics and biology say your body is fueled by ATP. Your mind begs to differ and claims you are fueled by all the abhorrence you can manage to muster. Unfortunately, odium does not make muscles move. You stand rooted to the ground, staring, breathing, sweating, aching and wishing; but wishing does not help either and in the end you simply sigh at your utter failure. With a final shake of your head, you move towards the door that pretty boy came in through. Perhaps it will take you out of this illusion and back to reality. As you leave, you begin to wonder if its pretty boy you hate or if you really just hate yourself.

WC- 533
Post- Closing Defense