I stand up like a shot, ready for anything. My show of defiance is met with a wild flurry of blows to my face and head.
In a daze, I sway and stagger, not wanting to fall. I know that if I show any weakness, I will crumble.
I feel warmth on my face and wipe my hand across my mouth. The sight of my own blood makes me feel even more determined not to lose. The fact that I am still standing gives me false confidence.
I am pummeled again and again with a barrage of force much greater than the last. The more I resist, the more it persists. I am unable to fend off the strikes as they fall in rapid succession. My instincts tell me not to quit but the assault is unrelenting.
I cannot take much more, but it has never been in my nature give up. I’m terrified and scared to lose. I brace myself for another onslaught. I feel my ribs crack as each jab lands with surgical precision. I can’t breathe. I am not strong enough.
Finally beaten, I fall to my knees and admit defeat.
I surrender to alcohol, the great persuader.