I had never gotten into a fight in my entire life until last year when I turned twenty-five. The closest I had been to a fight was all the way back in fifth grade when some kid wanted to copy my homework and I didn’t let him. He took mine and ripped it to pieces, in turn, I pushed him against the classroom wall as hard as my scrawny little fifth-grade self could. That immediately got our teacher’s attention and we both got in trouble. Up until last year that was the entirety of my fighting experience.

Fast forward to March, 2015. It was my birthday weekend, I had just turned twenty-five on Friday. I celebrated with a few of my friends, it was fun, no fighting whatsoever. On Saturday another friend of mine also wanted to celebrate with me. Here’s a little background on that friend. He was almost twice my age, in his late forties, an Englishman staying in Miami for his job managing some properties on Key Biscayne. Upon first look you’d think we didn’t have much in common: we were different ages, different backgrounds, different economic strata, different almost everything .

So, why was I hanging out with him on my birthday weekend? We had met while I was helping orchestrate an art show at one of his properties. Not much came of the art show, it actually went pretty sour. I had decidedly distanced myself from the whole situation once it was done, but about a month later he reached out to me. Over time we developed a friendship, given the age difference and our drastically different stages in life, a mentor-mentee, almost father-son type of relationship developed. That’s how I saw it, that’s how it was.

Now, I live here in Miami. I’ve got friends, I’ve got family, I’ve got a support network. It became increasingly apparent to me, over the months I got to know him, that he did not. He was mostly isolated other than his connections for work. He had few friends here, myself included. I knew he drank heavily, I’d seen him go through an entire bottle of gin (I know this should have been a red flag), but mostly he was just a good laugh when he was drunk. Not that night.

The night started with us going to an Italian restaurant. Unfortunately, the pasta was partially under cooked. It made my stomach rumble almost as soon as we left the place. We had gone to a bar to have a drink after, but having a drink did not help my situation. After he had a few I opted that we go, I really wasn’t feeling well. He was noticeably tipsy, but like I said, he was usually just a laugh, no reason for any alarm bells to go off.

Everything was fine back at his apartment until he thought it would be hilarious to shake me. Yeah, like literally grab me by the shoulders and shake me, don’t ask me why, the drunk mind is a different animal. I told him repeatedly to stop, but he was having a grand old time. Sure enough, I threw up. We were in his bedroom and I threw up all over. This apparently was a grave and mortal sin in his mind. His mood changed instantly. He started screaming as soon as the puking started. I made my way to the bathroom to clean myself up, and I could still hear him screaming outside.

I was trying to compose myself and clean my mouth when he came in. He threw his dirtied duvet in the tub and proceeded to scream directly into my ear about the “fucking mess” I made. Trust me, I knew I’d made a mess, but I needed a moment to compose myself, and in my defense, I had told him that I wasn’t feeling well. Then things took a turn for the sinister. Beyond just yelling at me, he shoved me while I was trying to clean out my mouth. It was a deliberate two handed push. It didn’t hurt, I didn’t fall, but it gave me pause. I told him to leave me alone. He didn’t.

I tried to go back to washing out my mouth. In that moment, while I had my back turned to him, face to the sink, he walked up behind me and grabbed me. He was going on incoherently about what I was going to do, and all that he had put up with, and what he deserved. The thing that sticks out more vividly than anything else is the way he spewed out those words, “This is what I deserve.” Then, with his left hand he tried to reach for my groin area. I instantly recoiled and elbowed him to get loose. When I turned, he was fuming, his face was a devilish shade of red, and veins were beginning to protrude from his neck and forehead like I’d never seen before. I managed to shove him off to the side and he stumbled for a moment, which gave me enough time to run to the guest bedroom and lock the door.

I reached for my cellphone in my pocket but I didn’t find it. In the chaos I had forgotten I had emptied the contents of my pockets when we came into the apartment. Now I was trapped. I heard him approach and try to turn the door knob. “Open the door.” I refused. I backed away from the door and sat down on the bed as the pounding and screaming began. I had just thrown up minutes ago and now there was only a measly wooden door between me and my deranged assailant. Happy birthday to me.

I inhaled deeply and exhaled as slowly as I possibly could. I repeated this a few times while I sat there waiting for the door to give way. It seemed to work, at least I was trying to brainwash myself that it was working because I needed to stay calm. His screams were penetrating, the banging incessant. I could feel strong palpitations in my chest, but my hands, even though sweaty, were more or less holding steady for the moment. My body can still feels the echoes from that moment as I write this -over a year later-. That anticipation was sickeningly unnerving. I heard the door-frame finally creak under the unrelenting onslaught. With one more hit it cracked and he was through.

He’d gotten past the door and I sprung to my feet instantly. I’m six-foot-two, 180 pounds, not the biggest guy in the world, but certainly not the smallest. My attacker was six foot and somewhere in the neighborhood of 220. I remember him making eye contact with me and screaming, “You!” I’ve never heard that word spoken in such a disturbingly prolonged way, almost as if the longer he held it the higher his rage would swell.

“Get the fuck away from me,” I told him, “leave me the fuck alone. Don’t you dare get near me!” I felt blood boiling up my neck and face. He charged at me, full force, all two-hundred-plus pounds ready to truck me, arms outstretched in front of him, ready to grasp and claw at me I presumed. Thank God my mother had insisted I take karate in middle school, this former blue belt was not going down without a fight. As he charged, either through luck, adrenaline, or dormant skill I managed to deflect his weight past me, such that he landed on the bed.

It was a short lived victory. He got back up furious as ever and took a wild swing at me. It didn’t come close to making contact but I couldn’t possibly allow him to try again. I felt surprisingly clear in that moment. It was me or him, and it wasn’t going to be me. With my right fist tightly clenched I stepped into the punch and landed one squarely on his left cheek bone. Trust me my two big knuckles felt the impact. He didn’t fall. He didn’t react. It was almost like he was stunned. For the first time he wasn’t screaming or making noises, or trying to tear a door down, or trying to come after me. He was just there, deer caught in the headlights. Maybe he hadn’t thought of the possibility that I might fight back, maybe he hadn’t thought about the potential consequences to his actions, maybe it just really hurt and he needed time to process. Maybe none of that happened. Maybe it was just me perceiving that he wasn’t moving and that time had almost slowed down to a halt, but really it was all happening unmeasurably fast.

Then I heard the dog. The dog had been barking the whole time, but I hadn’t even heard it until that moment. Now I thought my problems had just compiled, not only did I have this guy to deal with, but now I could quite possibly be attacked by his dog. All this happened in an instant. And it wasn’t an instant I could afford to squander. I struck again, same spot, same fist, same pain in my knuckles, different result.

I knocked him down. He was on the ground finally, but I didn’t feel safe. Not even close. I felt hot. Hot all over. I felt electric. All the rage he had, all the damage he was looking to inflict, it was as if somehow it was transferred to me. I felt rage. I felt so much rage. I felt enough rage that it was all I could feel, it filled me completely. I was glaring at him lying there on the floor red-faced and trembling. Trembling in fear? Trembling in shame? Trembling for what might come next? I don’t know. And I’ll be honest, in that moment I wasn’t sure what I could have done to him next. My fists were still clenched. Both of them. Hard. I was probably hurting my hands more by doing that, but there wasn’t a chance in hell I was letting go, not yet, I couldn’t.

Then he started crying. Really crying. Desperately crying. I was disgusted. This was the man that was trying to kill me? This was the man that tried to fucking grope me in his bathroom after I’d thrown up? This sobbing piece of shit had put me through all that grief? This had the audacity to call me names and break through a door to come after me? All his rage and all his bravado boiled down to this? To uncontrollable crying and trembling on the floor in the fetal position? My own rage exploded and now more than ever I wanted to drive my fist through his face. That’s what he deserved. But, I didn’t. He started pleading for his life. In between sobs you could make out, please don’t kill me. Please, please, please don’t hurt me. Please. His eyes were communicating fear. For the first time I realized I was so engulfed in rage, that what he was pleading me not to do was an all too real possibility.

Then he pleaded for his dog’s life. Not once had harming his dog even crossed my mind. It’s strange where the mind goes in a time of crisis. By doing so he made me think beyond the immediate situation. I realized in a wave of panic that I needed to get out of there. I had to go, but he was unreliable, he might still come after me. In the frenzy I channeled all my rage into screaming. I berated him, loudly, abusively, like he had done to me from the other side of the door. Now it was me yelling obscenities at him, and above all, I warned him not to move. I very distinctly warned him not to fucking move. I still get flashes of that moment sometimes. I was so outside of myself it’s like remembering someone else’s memories. I was anger personified.

I made it abundantly clear that he was not to move and that I was going to grab my things and go. Guess what? He moved. As soon as I took a step back he made an aggressive attempt to get up off the floor. Damn it. I was just trying to get away. I leaned in for one more, and threw as much weight as I could behind it, and I swear I felt like I broke my hand in the process. There was blood, I had cut his skin open with my fist. There were tears, ugly and flowing. There were hands held up defensively in front of his face instead of aggressively coming after me. And finally there was an okay that escaped his sobs. Okay, go, just don’t hurt my dog. I was more concerned with the dog hurting me; he was still barking and whimpering outside, scared at the whole situation.

I left the room. My right hand was in excruciating pain but I had no time to think about that. I found my phone, wallet, and car keys, and headed for the door. The dog didn’t come near me, he was shaking too. I actually apologized to him as I walked by. It hadn’t been my intention to terrorize the poor thing. I was almost to the door when I heard hurried foot steps. I thought he was coming after me again and I prepared for another violent encounter, but instead he threw himself on top of his dog and begged me not to hurt the poor creature for a final time. As I left the apartment I saw him get up and run at me once more. Again I prepared myself, but once I was past the front door he just grabbed it, slammed it shut, and began yelling obscenities at me from behind the locked door.

I was certain the police would be outside. They weren’t. I was certain the neighbors would be watching from their windows, phone in hand, ready to call the police. They weren’t. I walked to my car, got in and left. It was a tense drive back home. My heart was still racing. My hand was already swelling up. I was trying to process everything that had just happened but I couldn’t. It was too much. My phone kept buzzing. It was him. Texting me about how he was going to end my life and a thousand other things. I had to turn my phone off. I didn’t sleep that night.