There was the ring. The crowd cheered voyeuristically at a small group of children fighting one another for the sake of winning what seemed to be a trophy, a cheap, plastic vase with a poorly executed embellishment of a name. But she didn’t care about the trophy. Nor did she care about winning. Her palms that smelled of sweet milk and sweat were bleeding rose petals onto the floor. They painted each other’s faces red. She thought about art classes in school. Fingerpainting practices. The act of lovingly caressing each others’ faces with color, all kinds of it. Pink. Blue. Yellow. Green. Red. But in that moment, it all fell far behind. They were fighting for each other. They were fighting themselves. They were fighting each other for their parents. They were fighting their parents. They were fighting for love. They were hurting each other to not be hurt again. Or at least, not to be hurt by the time that they got home. Or at home.