Chapitre 9: Chapter 9: "Inner Struggles"
Ethan decided that the best thing to do was to try and ignore everything, just like Jason had told him. He walked into the classroom with his head held high, pretending that nothing affected him. He tried to repeat what he had done the last time: block out the voices in his head, suppress the comments with the same determination he had when he was on stage. But there was a difference. Last time, he had his music as a shield, his guitar as a refuge. Now, he was sitting, doing nothing, without that escape route that had always helped him. The sound of laughter seeped through the gaps in his mental fortress.
He repeated to himself over and over again that it shouldn't matter. "It doesn't matter," he told himself. But he felt how each word bit a little harder.
As Ethan sat, trying to calm his thoughts, he felt movement beside him. Nate was watching him from his seat, with a mocking smile that seemed to foreshadow the worst.
"Look at him, the great artist," Nate sneered, his voice low enough for others to hear if they paid attention, but loud enough to make sure Ethan heard him. "What? Waiting for your next big break? Or have you finally realized you're a failure?"
Ethan tried to ignore him. Don't give it importance, he repeated to himself. But Nate's words were like needles, sinking deeper with each comment.
"You're just like Trey, aren't you?" Nate continued, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "We all know how that ended. Another idiot with ridiculous dreams, trying to be famous. What a waste."
Ethan's stomach tightened at the mention of Trey. He remembered his friend's story, how the mockery had torn him apart to the point where he had to change schools. It won't happen to me, he told himself, but the heat of anger began to grow inside him.
"You think you're special?" Nate leaned in slightly toward him, his eyes full of disdain. "You think you're different from the other losers who tried the same thing? Let me tell you something, Ethan. All that's waiting for you is the same humiliation as everyone else. You're going to fall, and we'll be here to laugh when you do."
Ethan felt like he was about to explode. His breathing quickened, his hands trembled with contained fury. He knew he shouldn't react, that it would only give Nate more power, but each word cut deeper than the last.
"People like you are so easy to crush," Nate said, his voice dripping with barely concealed contempt. "You dream big, but you don't have the thick skin to withstand the falls. Look at you, you're already about to break. At least Trey had the decency to disappear before things got worse. You, on the other hand, still think there's something in you that's worth it."
It was that last phrase that broke the barrier inside Ethan. He stood up abruptly, pushing his chair back with force. Anger clouded his mind, and before he could think, he was already walking toward Nate with determined steps.
Nate looked at him in surprise at first, unable to believe that Ethan would actually confront him. His victims had always been easy; most shrank under his comments or simply ignored him. But now, something in Ethan's eyes froze his blood.
For a second, Nate saw a shadow, a figure that made him retreat in time. He remembered his stepfather, that look of fury, that contained violence. It was as if he was seeing it again in Ethan's eyes, and fear paralyzed him.
Ethan saw nothing but the need to silence those damn voices. With a speed even he didn't anticipate, his fist flew toward Nate. The punch was quick and brutal, landing directly on his face.
Nate felt a sharp pain in his nose, and before he could react, his whole body staggered backward. He fell to the ground, his vision blurred as pain spread across his face. Blood began to flow from his nose, and the shock left him dazed.
The classroom, which had been filled with whispers and laughter, fell into complete silence. No one moved, no one even breathed. It was as if time itself had frozen in that moment, with Ethan standing, his chest rising and falling rapidly, and Nate on the floor, bleeding.
Ethan felt the tremor in his hands. He hadn't planned this. It had all happened too fast. The punch, the blood, the fall. And yet, there he was, his fist still clenched, the anger still burning in his veins. He looked around the room, seeing the shocked faces of his classmates, and for a moment, he wondered if he had really done the right thing. But in his mind, there was only a desperate need to silence Nate.
Nate, for his part, remained on the ground, the blood staining his shirt and his face full of confusion. He couldn't believe what had just happened. Ethan, the same kid who used to ignore his comments or look away, had hit him. He had really hit him. He felt a heat rise through his body, a mix of rage and humiliation consuming him from within.
With effort, he slowly got up, stumbling a little as he wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand. No one moved to help him, and that only infuriated him more. "What the hell are you all looking at?" he thought, noticing the stares fixed on him. His mind raced, recalling scenes from the past, memories of his stepfather getting up after hitting him, with that same expression on his face. That same mix of fury and contempt that he now, somehow, saw reflected in Ethan.
"You're going to regret this," Nate growled, but his voice sounded less confident than he had wanted. He realized it, and that irritated him even more.
Ethan didn't respond. There was nothing to say. His gaze remained fixed on Nate, cold and determined, as if all the fear he had once felt had evaporated with that single punch.
Nate, not wanting to show weakness, gritted his teeth and lunged at Ethan with a direct punch. The classroom filled with murmurs again as the two clashed once more.
Ethan barely managed to lift his arms in time to block the blow, but the force of the impact pushed him back. He stumbled a couple of steps before planting his feet firmly, his muscles tense, trying to anticipate Nate's next move. The classroom seemed to shrink, the laughter and murmurs of the other students fading as he focused solely on Nate in front of him.
Nate, fueled by rage and the memory of his stepfather, threw another punch. This time it was a hook that landed on Ethan's side, just below the ribs. The pain exploded in his abdomen, making him bend slightly. He felt each heartbeat in his head, but the adrenaline kept his mind focused.
With each punch, Nate wasn't just releasing his frustration from the moment, but years of pent-up anger. To him, Ethan wasn't just another kid to bully, he was a distorted reflection of what he had endured. Each punch was a desperate attempt to reaffirm his own control, his own strength, as if with each impact he could erase the scars he carried inside.
Ethan, despite the pain, didn't stop. He lifted his head, breathing heavily. With a choked growl, he launched a counterattack, a straight punch to Nate's stomach that made him stumble. Nate stepped back, gasping, but didn't give up. They clashed again, exchanging blows, each more violent than the last.
Suddenly, a punch from Nate hit Ethan square in the jaw. He barely had time to see Nate's fist coming before the impact hit him. The pain was instant, a white flash that shook him, and suddenly, he found himself on the ground, the air knocked out of his lungs. The classroom remained silent, but in his mind, everything blurred.
For a few seconds, he stayed there, dazed, as his vision faded and the pain dragged him to a familiar place. Again, that feeling of sinking into a dream, but this time, more vivid, more real.
Ethan was no longer in the classroom. Now he was 23 years old and found himself in a small, poorly lit dressing room, with metal walls and stained mirrors. The noise of the audience outside filtered through the half-open door.
In front of him was a girl who seemed to be around 20 years old, her black, straight hair falling softly over her shoulders, framing a face with delicate features and fair skin. Her large, deep brown eyes looked at him with a mix of sadness and desperation, while her pink lips pressed slightly, as if she were holding back what she wanted to say. She wore a simple yet elegant black dress that hugged her slim, slender figure, highlighting her natural grace. Despite her fragile appearance, there was an intensity in her gaze that contrasted with her delicacy, a strength that seemed on the verge of crumbling in front of him.
"Ethan, you can't do this," she said, her voice breaking as she crossed her arms in front of her chest, as if trying to protect herself from the pain her words brought. "Keep trying with music, don't give up yet. You'd already given up on acting. I don't understand this obsession of yours. What are you trying to prove?"
The atmosphere was heavy, filled with unspoken tensions. The girl, whose name echoed in his mind as Samara, seemed to hold back tears as she spoke. The dressing room, despite being full of boxing gear, felt claustrophobic. A few lights flickered, and the smell of sweat and rusted metal filled the air. Outside, the murmurs and shouts of the anxious audience waiting for the next fight could be heard.
Ethan turned around, his reflection in the mirror returning a vacant stare. His body, though strong, seemed weary, as if the weight of his choices had burdened him to the limit. He turned to Samara, clenching his fists.
—It's because I want to be famous —he replied, a mix of frustration and desperation in his voice—. I want to be a star, for people to look at me, to recognize me, to admire me, for them to want to be like me.
Samara stepped closer to him, her eyes filling with tears as she looked at him. The distance between them was short, but emotionally, it felt like an abyss.
—Ethan, I recognize you. I admire you for who you are —she said, her voice breaking with pain—. I admire that despite everything, you never give up on that dream. It doesn't matter how, but not like this... I don't want to see you hurting yourself, this time, literally. Ethan, please…
He shook his head, unable to look into those eyes that stripped away all his excuses.
—You don't understand, Samara. I… want to connect with people, to inspire them. And what better inspiration than being the new Rocky? —he said, with a bitter laugh that didn't reach his eyes—. A nobody, a failure in acting and music, who now finds stardom in boxing. What could be better than that?
Samara could no longer hold back her tears. She stepped forward and took his face in her hands, her fingers trembling as she looked at him with a mix of love and desperation.
—Ethan, please, don't do this —she whispered, her voice breaking—. You have nothing to prove. You're already perfect for me.
Tears rolled down her cheeks, falling onto the hands that held Ethan's face, who closed his eyes for a moment, letting himself be carried away by that closeness. But inside, the emptiness continued to grow.
And then, the scene changed.
He found himself in the ring, with gloves on and sweat dripping down his forehead. He could hear the crowd's screams, feel the pressure of the audience, and on the other side, his opponent, an imposing man, stared at him with fierce eyes. Ethan analyzed every movement, every little gesture. He knew how to respond, how to dodge. He was ready.
However, something changed. Someone in the audience threw something into the ring, something small, but enough to be dangerous. It looked like a slippery object, maybe a bottle, and when Ethan stepped back to dodge a punch, he stepped on it. He lost his balance. Everything happened in a fraction of a second. The world spun around him, and before he could regain his footing, his opponent's fist connected directly with his face.
The impact was brutal. Pain shot through his skull like thunder, and everything went dark. He fell to the ground, unable to defend himself. The crowd roared, but their voices faded as darkness enveloped him.
Suddenly, Ethan returned to reality.
He was still on the classroom floor. The murmurs of his classmates filled the air. He could see Nate's legs approaching him, a growing shadow over his body. His mind was still caught between two worlds, the ring and the classroom, but that vision... that fight... had been so vivid. As if it had shown him Nate's next move.
With renewed clarity, Ethan prepared himself. He didn't know how, but he knew what Nate would do. When Nate raised his fist to deliver another blow, Ethan rolled to the side just in time, dodging the punch that would have landed in his abdomen. He quickly got up, his mind clear, his body filled with energy. The fight wasn't over yet.
This time, he was ready
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone