What Doesn't Kill You by Elitsa Dermendzhiyska

Author:Elitsa Dermendzhiyska [Dermendzhiyska, Elitsa]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781783527786
Publisher: Unbound
Published: 2020-05-07T16:00:00+00:00

FEBRUARY 2008 (AGE TWENTY-EIGHT)

Condensation trickles down the graffitied walls of the gym and gathers in pools on the floor. It’s busy in here tonight, the air thick with tension and a need for everyone to get things right. This is how it always is with a big fight on the horizon. People are on edge, they hit harder and worry more about little mistakes. Only a few of us will be competing next week, but the excitement is contagious. From beginner to sensei, everyone acts like they’re fixing for a rumble.

Like any good knight in shining armour, kickboxing showed up just in the nick of time. I stumbled upon this place three years ago, having followed my latest crush through the door. It didn’t work out with him, but that doesn’t matter because I’ve fallen in love with everything that fighting has to offer instead. Here, I feel like part of a community – like I belong – and for the first time I can taste the promise of real strength.

I can still remember the thrill of throwing my very first punch: the thwack of my glove on the pads, the feeling of power as my knuckles connected. It felt like an awakening: a return to my right to battle back and a chance to prove that I’m a woman who can’t be fucked with. Finally, I feel like I’ve found a language to tell the story I need to tell.

Right now I’m training on my own, working on the same big, heavy boxing bag that I always choose. It’s comfortably familiar, the right height and weight, with its curves and indentations just where I need them to be. There’s a rhythm to this kind of practice that offers an intoxicating sense of certainty. I work hard to lose myself in the repetition of my favourite combinations, relishing the power I’ve taught my body to own. Hard and heavy hands followed by the satisfying thud of shin into leather. And repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

The beeping timer signals the end of my round, and I pause to watch two men sparring in the ring next to me. They move with an intensity reserved only for combat sports: eyes cold, focused and shark-like, fists poised to punch, knees twitching, ready to lift a leg and strike. To train as a fighter is to unlearn your natural instincts. You have to condition yourself to keep your eyes open while under attack, to move forward into risk rather than flinch and shy away, to fight when you want to freeze. It takes effort to fine-tune these most unhuman of skills but it’s what I have to do. If I want to win the battles I walk willingly into, this is what it’ll take.

One of the men, a forward-moving fighter, ducks under a hook and counters with an uppercut that lands flush. The other man’s nose starts to bleed, dripping onto his shirt and the floor beneath them. Still breathing heavily, I gaze at their feet as they dance red all over the canvas and my thoughts drift to the competition.

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