Work Out Break Down

I hit the sandbag again. The chain rattles and the reverb runs up my arm to my shoulder. I hit it again, and the same thing happens. I hit it again, a little harder, and I feel my bones start to protest. I hit the sandbag again, harder, and harder and harder. My gloves have been going to hell for a long while and today might finally be the day they give up on me. I hope so. I need the excuse to spend the money. I hit the bag again and a rip goes across the surface, spilling the little beans across the floor. I sigh and straighten and throw my head back. I wanted to go a little longer, but that's a good a sign as any to take the cool down now. I'm here enough to make up for it.

I look around RTLs. Small crowd tonight, but it's Friday, and it's a miracle that even this many people are here at all. Poor Troy decided that he has better things to do than work out with me. Ken's helping the gym actually make some money for once. Lord knows I don't pay enough here to keep this thing afloat.

I sit against the wall, bottle in hand as I watch the class hit the climax. Women's self-defense, good skill to have, and definitely brought in some new faces. A few of them turn my way, no doubt from the ruckus I caused. An ideal to work towards, maybe, a little fear here and there to set them on edge, a push to be something greater. I don't know. I just saw one of them glancing over, trying not to make it look too obvious, but that only made it more obvious and now she wasn't paying any attention at all, just smiling sweetly at me. Until Ken spoke a little louder in that thick accent of his and drew her attention back to what she frankly overpaid for.

It was odd to see a man who made his living by fighting give the advice that the best course of action was running away. He never did that in his life, and he had the broken nose and scars to prove it. But they all nodded along like it was the best thing they had ever heard. And, in all fairness, being in a fight kind of sucked. It could be amazing, the ebb and flow of movement coupled with the feeling of parting flesh, breaking skin, and snapping bone, but only if you were on the dealing end.

I pull myself away from my wall with one last sip and start stretching. This feels good too, this breaking in my muscles. My chest gets in the way, but a couple shifts here and there get most of it out of the way. The sports bra helps, some, but I've gotten used to working around the girls. They do their job just fine and I don't blame them for it. Something pops in my back and I suppress a satisfied grunt. More shifting of my parts, getting my body to the right configuration to break the stiffness into gummy flexibility. My pants need more than a little help to get around, but they manage.

"Hey Rachel," Ken growls, "Come here once. Need help."

That one girl was still looking at me, black, petite, lithe, defined but not forged, smiling a little more than politely, slight scar on her lip that might be the source of the smile. Something dark in the eyes, but that's probably the exhaustion on my part or hers. Chest heaving, clearly something impressive, beyond the stretched fabric. I like that part, and I like what I can make out of her back. I wasn't paying attention to the class, and I regret it immensely. I slowly stretch up and that same woman watches me walk over, just as the others do. Ken leans down through the ropes, poking his head between the first and second.

"Odd number of girls for sparring," he says, "need one more. Can you help?"

"Do it yourself," I say.

"Can't fight the students. Rob's rules, not mine. You're not a trainer, so you can fight. Please?"

I sigh. I was done, so that meant I could go home. I was in the middle of the cool down and now I had to fight and that meant getting worked up again. But Ken had an odd way of looking absolutely pathetic when he needed to, despite the broken nose that never healed right and the cauliflower ears that bulged and pulsed and turned red.

But that wasn't the real problem. I needed release, and I couldn't do it here, not after all the close calls I've had, and I don't trust myself enough to manage the pull in my core once I get in the ring. But that same woman was looking at me and everything in my body said go to her. She carries truth, love, safety, all things wonderful in her surprisingly ample chest. It must be confronted, at least attempted.

I sigh again and step in. Ken introduces me and I give a little wave. The sandbag still hangs behind me, gutted like an overripe fish, guts still scattered across the floor. Rob will bill me for that later, but all of my attention is focused on the woman.

Dark skin, smooth and flowing, like gazing into the embers of a cooling fire. I can almost see the little glowing tendrils in the creases, where her joints meet, the shoulders, her cleavage. Her top has the same troubles as mine. Slightly she shifts her stance, just enough to thrust her chest out. I do not look away. No point. She knows. I know she knows. That endless spiral of knowing what the other knows draws us in, and I can feel her looking at me as I lose myself in her.

I want to hurt her.

Deep breathes, in and out, in and out, as Ken goes over the rules of sparring, probably a little too obvious, but at this point, that was the game. Just a chance to go through the motions on something flesh and blood. No below the belt, although that should be a little less of a problem for all of us. He laughs and no one laughs with him. He doesn't know and I don't make it known. I focus on the woman in front of me and the fact that she now licks her lips.

"Who wants to be with Rachel," he says, and the woman's hand is up before the last word is out of his mouth. He claps and she sidles next to me was the rest of the group breaks up into the prerequisite pairs.

She's close, so close, too close, the scent of her sweat under laced with something soft and floral and soapy. Nice, very nice. I just smell like effort and stale gym mats, but she did not mind.

"Hi," she says, "Rachel, right? It's Louise. I'm nice to mate you."

"What?"

"Fuck. Sorry. Words are hard. It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

Smile, too much smiling that sang of happiness and joyful warm light. I did not smile. Despite everything, there was a fight to be had, and all the pleasantries were merely window dressing, false syllables that tried to hide the fac that everything said between us glossed over the brutal primal things were both know we were.

"That nervous huh? I mean I'm no sandbag, but you got a good half a foot on me. If anything, I'm the one that should be scared. How do you even get to the point where you can do that?"

"I've been fighting a long time."

"Really, I don't believe that. First hit says I'm older than you."

"Are you really trying to bet on a self-defense class spar?"

"Yep. I'm 28."

"Congratulations. You're going to die sooner than I am. I'm 27."

"Bullshit. You're lying. No way you're 27. 25 at most."

"What is your plan here? You win. You get to hit me first. Why are you fighting this?"

"Because you're cute as hell when you get worked up. I liked the show. A lot."

Her smile lengthened and stretched to the point where her mouth should split open. It didn't but it gave me ideas. Playing with some dangerous things, she was, but she had no clue what would happen. She did not know, and ignorance was not something to be punished on and of itself. She would still get punished, but that could wait for the few minutes it took to get on the other side of these damn ropes.

"Rachel, Louise, your turn," says Ken with a wave. Like a gentleman, I let her go first. She sticks out her tongue at me and the world falls away to violence. It's a spar, some deep part of me says. Don't go all out. Just taps, here and there, let her know what's up. It's not a real fight. I don't have to be this way. Just some taps, maybe a real punch to the ribs at most. Let her experiment. This isn't about me. It's about her and her learning to protect herself. It's quiet but intense, that voice telling me to relax. Good, that's good. Progress. I can at least hear the voice. I may not listen to it, but I can hear it. Ken goes all out and actually rings the bell. The student body lets out a cheer like it's a title fight, belt and everything on the line.

Louise approaches slowly, hands up in an actually decent guard. Just from the way she shuffles her feet, I can tell that she has fought before, or at least been to more than one class. Her hands are steady, gaze fixed, everything in the proper order.

She jabs, and I realize she's a southpaw. It glances off my forearm harmlessly. Another, and another and another. She's good, knows how to throw a punch at least, and do it right. That's more than a lot of people I've met. A straight comes in and connects to the side of my head. Sloppy, all sloppy and wrong and bad.

Whatever voice in my head goes quiet with the physical contact and my mind goes black. Rage and violence and hidden blackness as my core tightens and muscles spasm and that's all I am, all I'll ever be, all I'll ever be. Anything I could be is washed away by the call of fist on flesh and breaking bone and bruising muscle and spilling blood. I return the call, a test of myself against her, blood for blood and bending bone. I hit her guard and I felt her arm bend, not break, along the length and her eyes go wide. She turtles away, trying to run and hide. I pursue.

Ken could stop this. He really could. Ring the bell, break me out of the fog and maybe even save a life in this. But he doesn't. All smiles and cheers, sweeping away all the little nagging doubts in the mind of the crowd. I was being careful. Sure, I could destroy her, ravage her, tear inside out and leave a bloody mess of pulsating flesh on the floor, but I was nice. Kind of. A little terse, but a heart of gold.

The lies fall away with a single jab. I feel Louise's nose break as a geyser of blood rockets from her nose and splashes the mat. Habit and training and instinct kick in as that voice, that laudable angel of all that is good and kind in the world, harks and screams to stop. I can still run it back, play this off as a minor infraction and make the world out to be a soft and just place. But I do not. My right arm is coming out of the blackness with the force of a shotgun and I can't stop it. Louise reels from the pain. She hadn't been punched in the face before. I should have seen that, the way she coiled away and hid, but I didn't, and I couldn't stop either way.

My fist hits the side of her head and she crumples onto the mat in a pile of limp flesh. I come out of the void. I may have just killed someone again. I am a monster, after all.

---

I sit on the hard plastic wood of a hospital chair, the smell of antiseptic filling my nose. It's a change from the stale sweat of RTL's, but not necessarily a good one. The soft beep of the heart monitor prevents me from dozing, although the guilt and the shame coiling in my gut do a good enough job of that on their own. It burns as it cramps my stomach. At least I got to ride in an ambulance again. And that was fun. Some deep part of me that's still 6 years old was amused by the flashing lights and the loud noises. The dark hammer of failure pounded whatever joy was to be found out and the soft rising of need from my core just made the hammer louder.

Louise's head was swollen and red and sore. Concussion at least, maybe a fracture, or a broken skull at worst. That has to be it. I put someone in a coma and they'd never wake up and it'd be all my fault. A nurse walks in, tries to be supportive and leaves after a moment, having done whatever magic nurses do. She realized that I'm not one for the flowery bullshit, and she has other patients to check on with guests that might be more receptive to her attitude.

They, the doctors, and the nurses with professional smiles that mean less than nothing, try to ask me what I am to her and I don't want to say that I'm to blame. Giving it words and meaning would just make it more powerful. I say I'm a friend. She was sparring and took a blow to the head. Then she was like this and then we're here.

I couldn't afford a hospital bill, but I would pay it. I had to pay it. It was the least I could do. In no way would it make any of this right. But it would be something. It would be something to tell myself that I made a positive impact on this woman's life, in the long run. It wouldn't be enough, but it had to be. It had to be enough.

Louise stirs and murmurs and my spiral of self-pity came to an abrupt stop as she woke. Slowly, agonizing over every inch of movement, she opens her eyes to a sterile ceiling takes in the scent of illness masked with chemical cleanliness and fixes her gaze on mine. I look away, down to the floor. The speckled tiles do not judge me.

"I'm sorry, but I don't remember your name," she says. Louise groans and deflated back to her bed, mercifully giving me a few moments to collect myself.

"It's Rachel," I say to the neutral floor, "How are you feeling?"

"Fucking terrible. What happened?"

"You... I... I knocked you out. You were at a self-defense class and I knocked you out when we sparred."

The shame roars in my stomach and a tear crawls down my cheek.

"That was a dick move. Oh god. My head."

The groans turn to a leaping laughter than back to a groan. She's in pain. She's in pain because of me. I wanted this. I wanted her hurt and cowering and she is sitting there laughing it off like it's nothing.

"You owe me. You owe me so goddamn bad for this."

"I don't know how, but I'll figure out how to pay for all this. I can get more shifts or another job or something."

"What? No. Nothing like that. My insurance is fantastic. I just want the full story because the last thing I remember is climbing into the ring with you and now I'm here. That's what, a couple of hours or something? Oh god. It's like there're two jackhammers in my head and they're meeting in the middle."

"Maybe it's better if you don't talk right now."

Louise nods and doesn't say a thing, slipping back behind a set of eyelids, savoring the smidgen of extra darkness. In and out, her chest rises and falls beneath the thin hospital sheets. That darkness in my core whispers damnable things in my ear and my need grows. I'm not in the ring. I can push it down, so long as there's not a threat. It's something in the back of my mind, something to ignore and push down and squash until it doesn't exist anymore. Something to make not real until this all blew over and I was back at my apartment, with the lights down low and the hot water running.

"Next Friday," says Louise, "Next Friday, we go to Lord & Lady and we have a drink and we talk this out."

She moans again and my core twitches.

"What? I don't understand."

"I'm asking you out, idiot. We'd do it tomorrow, but I don't think getting drunk with a concussion is the smartest thing in the world, and I've already done enough dumb shit for the whole weekend. So, Friday, Lord & Lady, 8? Yes or no?"

It takes me a long time to answer. Fortunately, it takes her a long time to settle down enough for me to give one. I've already given in for the night, so more indulgences couldn't hurt.

"Yes."

She groans again and somehow manages to raise a single had with the thumb extended.

"Leave your number on the table. I'll text you when I'm out. You can go home now. Thank you for this by the way and sorry if I'm out of it. I've had a rough evening."

"Are you sure? I can stay if you want me to."

"No, no, no. I'm going to sleep now. I want to sleep, so I'm going to sleep. I mean, you can creep on me if you want. I'm not really in a position to stop that. But please don't. Go home, Rachel. I'll be fine. Probably."

I didn't have it in me to fight this anymore. I let it happen. I walk out of the room, Louise already back asleep. That conversation must have taken a lot from her and I was leaving her alone, in a hospital, that I put her in. No one looks at me as I walk away. I'm not worth it. I was never worth it.

I get a taxi and spend the ride in silence. The driver, thankfully, is one of the ones that either doesn't talk at all or can't even speak English. Those are always the best ones. He doesn't try to stop the storm inside, and I can just let it rage.

Need and guilt over the need and shame over having guilty, feelings on top of feelings, stacking one after the other in a monolith to crush my mind. All the while, I'm rock hard. My pull in my core has finally had enough of tempering and subjugation and decided that now was the best time to display its will for the world to see. It hurt, each pulse sending a shock of pain down my thighs. I shift and try to get the beast under control. It doesn't like that. It likes warm, wet, soft things, spreading and tearing open and hammering pelvises into dust until it detonates inside of a womb. It doesn't like the tight elastic and polyester trying to constrain and choke the flow of blood to the tip. Deep breaths, in and out, in and out, to keep the darkness down until I was out of the black car and back in my shower or at least an alley with no one around.

It pokes my kneecap and throbs and pulses and demands attention. An errant hand takes to stroking the damn thing through the fabric and I have officially lost control of my own body for the second time tonight. Up and down, in time with my futile attempts to calm myself, tracing a particularly sensitive vein that shivered with blood. I tense and release and a spurt of pre stains my shorts and the scent of semen fills the car. The driver sniffs and coughs and my hand pulls away. I am not alone. This is not appropriate. I need better control. I need to be better.

The darkness does not care. It wants to unleash everything, go back to the hospital and tear into Louise as she lies there helplessly, wide eyed in pain and terror as I rip her apart, find every nurse that looks vaguely attractive and rampage through the city until every fertile womb is filled and packed with my seed. And then do it again and again and again, until the world is impregnated by me and me alone.

I grip the arm rest and pray that the car goes faster before I reach full hardness. It's throbbing faster and faster, enraged at the lack of stimulation. It wants freedom and thus it will conquer everything to get it. My foot starts tapping as the pain increases. The driver thankfully steps on it and before I start a rampage I would regret, we arrive.

I pay him and say nothing as I tear up the steps, finally arriving home where I can be the monster I am. I strip and every sense alights with new sensation. My member thumps me right below my sternum and a deluge of thick pre drenches my chest. Slick breeding meat, savage and vicious and starved, I destroy myself, hand over hand pumping and squeezing, growling, and grunting like an animal. What little reason I have takes me to the bathroom, into the shower, where hot water pours down and traces brutal lines down my flesh. More pre pouring from my head. I anoint myself with my own presence and essence. It is all I am, instinct and need and primal urge to mate and kill and that's all I'll ever be. Up and down, muscles clenching and squeezing, teeth clenched as a massive spray of pre douses the glass door. Hot and heat and savage coiling muscles tense. A hand shifts to my sack, gentle fondling and caressing, something kind to accentuate the brutality I inflict on myself. I break myself as I stroke and pump, trying to beat the beast into submission. It kicks and throbs and pulses and spits, loving the pain and demanding more and more punishment. It wants to endure and grow through strife. It wants to be harder, more brutal and savage until it's the apex of everything.