Raze

My father used to say pain was the only way to burn weakness out of a boy, and he proved it with his fists every day of my childhood. Weak, soft, useless those were the names he gave me once he sensed the gentleness in me, the quiet softness I could never fully hide. He didn’t know the truth about who my heart leaned toward; he only saw something fragile and decided it had to be broken. He said he was making me strong, someone real, but all he truly taught me was silence. I learned to hide kindness behind anger, to swallow fear until it disappeared, to survive in a place where tenderness felt dangerous. Even after juvenile detention center where violent kids were sent halls, after sirens, blood, and endless nights, that softness never died. It stayed buried deep in my chest, stubborn and breathing beneath every scar I carry. Now they call me Raze in the underground, a street fighter who makes money where broken bones mean applause and gangs treat violence like currency. No rules, no mercy just fists, bets, and the roar of people hungry for someone to fall. I just got out of juvenile because I beat someone to a pulp in a fight in school that went too far. Not an enemy. Not a stranger. My own crush. I still see the look on his face, more confusion than pain, like he couldn’t understand how the person who watched him so gently could become something so cruel but he started it first bullied me for my kindness it snapped something in me it brought a flashback from the way my father used to treat me. Everyone else calls it another victory, another step toward building my name, but they don’t feel the weight that follows me home. Because the truth is, I’m still too damn soft inside for the monster I pretend to be and now the only person I ever wanted to protect is the one I might never be forgiven by.