Prejudice: A Fictional Narrative

Darcy jumped awake at the sound of pounding on the door. With slow, deliberate care, he ejected himself away from Amanda so not to wake her, and slipped out from under the covers, catching the time on the nightstand as he moved. Who would disturb them at half past four in the morning? It must be Wickham.
Padding to the door he quickly opened it, readying himself to push Wickham into the hall so not to disturb the sleeping woman in the room.
Darcy’s eyes widened in shock. “You!”
A large fist collided with his jaw causing him to stumble backwards at the surprising blow. Two intimidating men, and the intoxicated Dolan, piled into the room and took advantage of his jolt in seeing his nemesis alive.
Grabbing hold of his arms, the two larger forcibly slammed his back hard against the nearest wall and held him there. Pain shot through his skull where the glass of a picture frame was shattered.

“Michael, stop!”
Amanda’s anguished voice fueled Darcy’s infuriation of the cowardice egregiously displayed by the weaker man. Summing up all force in his arms and shoulders, he locating the heads of his captors and clap them together with a resounding thud. He watched with satisfaction as they both sprung backwards to the ground, groaning.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Amanda scrambling out of the bed.
“Amanda, stand back,” he ordered, menacing towards the defenseless Dolan, “until all these ruffians are dealt with appropriately.”
“Look out!” Amanda shouted out.
Too late to act, he was attacked from behind and a large item was broken over his back, the force of which caused him to fall to one knee.
This development was enough to turn the tide to his