[ WP ] The enragement ring . In this world , there is a custom where you must propose to your arch nemesis to hate each other forever .


 It was odd that such a tiny hunk of metal felt so heavy in Davis ’ pocket. 
 
 It was his ring ( well, as “ his ” as anyone ’ s could be ), but where it used to be light, almost forgettable, now it hung like a weight from his neck, an albatross to bear. He fidgeted, uncomfortably, on the bench – his hand often darting to the pocket to make sure it was where he had left it, though he knew he could feel its every move against his skin – and eyed the time, nervously counting down the minutes. 
 
 Almost five. Soon he ’ d know. 
 
 He had wondered if today would be the day they ’ d get out late, if today would be ‘ his ’ day, but, just like the last painful, dragging, searing weeks, he sat in silence waiting for someone who wouldn ’ t come. 
 
 Maybe it was best to do like Sarah said… maybe he needed to move on. He couldn ’ t make a difference sitting here, every day, never living. He couldn ’ t make *her* proud. He knew, somewhere deep in the pit at the bottom of his stomach, that he ’ d never have a chance to, now. 
 
 From beyond the door, he heard movement. Davis sat up, eyes darting around the room as if they had something to look to, and he strained his ears against the echoing, deafening quiet of the hallway. They were coming. 
 
 Standing, Davis withdrew the ring, holding it in the crux of his hand. He spared a glance at it; it was a dull, tarnished bronze, his father ’ s ring before him. Davis swung on the balls of his feet, side to side, waiting, this few seconds feeling a lifetime. 
 
 As the doors swung open, there he was. Behind the leading line of journalists and groupies, each group vying for his attention more than the last; behind the bailiff in his starched, stark white shirt and tepid demeanor; behind his slimy, slick-haired lawyer and his overpriced suit, he stood. He was sharing a now-common story about the number of Enragement Rings he had been given over the last few months, bragging about the records he had broken, and was pointing to them, gold and shiny all, swinging from a makeshift necklace slung around his neck. 
 
 As the group came upon Davis, they didn ’ t seem to notice him until he and the man stood almost nose to nose. Davis wanted to accuse him of all the things he ’ s done, all of the pain… just like the other fathers had done before him. Davis couldn ’ t remember his name, though. Every thought now was of her. Willow. 
 
 With a flick of the wrist, Davis ’ ring slammed into the man ’ s chest with an imperceptible thud and, unseen, fell to the floor. As Davis raised the pistol his father had also given him, he managed to bark, “ I want my daughter back **you son of a bitch. ** ”
