This time, before he fully straightens, he lunges with his fist, but I easily dodge them for access to his uncovered back. I can feel the bone bend and crack under my knuckles.
He doesn't try to get up, instead he lays on the hot sand and gasps. When I stalk towards him, fear finally settles on his features, sending panic to his scrambling limbs.
Crouching, I easily grab a hold of him, grasping his long, thick golden hair in my left fist. He starts to sob, his mouth, once again, opening and closing, swallowing large gulps of his own tears. His eyes meet mine and suddenly something lodges itself into my throat.
The back of my eyes prickle and I tear my gaze from his to stare at the audience. They're up and stomping, the reverberation calming, but it doesn't stop the choking.
My eyes sweep the stadium, and catch on something glinting in the sand: the shield. It's close enough for me to watch myself debate how to kill him.
Is that his nose? I shake the thought away but the nagging noise in my mind continues to drawl. No, it's been broken too many times.
Angrily I shake my head, enough to sway my whole body and rattle my opponent by the roots of his hair. Slightly dizzy, I find myself staring back at my contorted reflection.
Ah, there he is, in the eyes. No!
Wrenching his head back and without warning, I rip my right arm guard's metal edge across his throat, slicing through it and ending the show with a great display of shooting blood. Dropping the boy, I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly self-aware.
The thrum of the audience reaches my spine and I ache to know what they are shouting.
I am entitled to hear my own victories! They are mine, and mine alone!
Frustrated and hit with a bout of confusion, I open my own mouth and let out any noise I can muster, disgusted and distraught that I can't even hear myself scream.