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Tristan
Jab. Cross. Right hook.
Jab. Cross. Left hook.
Uppercut. Uppercut.
I call out the moves to myself in my head as I hit the bag with as much strength as I can muster.
My arms are screaming with exhaustion. I’ve been going at the bag for hours and still I throw my punch combinations. I don’t take a break, using all the force I have in my body in the hopes that I’ll get the anger out.
My gray t-shirt is drenched, large stains coloring the fabric over my abs, back, and armpits. It sticks to me and I yank it off, unwilling to deal with the added irritation.
My headphones blare songs that match my mood in my ears. Angry, loud music that fuels my need to destroy.
Nera’s confession drove me to this. I barely made it out of that room without unleashing my rage. The alcohol had only served to charge the fury flowing in my veins and I’d needed to find an outlet for it.
Never before have I needed to find a physical outlet to expel the anger from my body. Typically, I’ll smoke a joint and relax my way through it, but I knew that wasn’t going to be nearly enough in this case.
I overheard a couple of the students talking about the old chocolate factory last week. Apparently, it’d recently been converted into an underground boxing gym.
I’d gone from my classroom straight to seek it out, relying on the carry-on bag of workout clothes I always carried in the boot of my car.I hadn’t expected much and that’s exactly what had greeted me. It was a dingy, dark, and incredibly creepy location, especially at night, and the students had used the word ‘converted’ very liberally.
When I walked in, there was a main area with a shitty looking ring in the center surrounded by standing lights. In the corner, a makeshift bar.
I ventured down the hallways and through to the other rooms finding an out of use kitchen, derelict line machinery, drab locker rooms and a couple of pitiful looking practice rooms with a hanging bag in each.
I picked the one with the heaviest bag and got to work.
Jab.
I’d felt it.
When I watched that match, I’d felt the tension of that moment. The veiled danger of it.
Cross.
Imagining him putting his hands on her, having the fuckingballsto do it when thousands of people were watching–
Jab. Cross. Right hook.
Thinking of Nera as being in any way as vulnerable as my mum had a kind of fury I’d never felt before exploding in my veins.
Jab. Cross. Jab. Cross. Jab. Cross. Jab.
Cross.
I will never understand men putting their hands on a woman.
Disgust roils in my stomach.
Jab. Cross. Left hook.
The bag bounces on its metallic hook under the force of my blows and I hold it, punching wrathful uppercuts into it like it’s a sentient human being who can feel me fucking it up.
I shove it away and high kick it. I have no skill in the sport, just raw emotion. There’s nothing pretty about what I’m doing right now.
Jab. Cross. Knee. Knee.Knee.
