“Go on, you do it.”
I jab, and my fist hits the bag. It thuds.
“Like that?” I ask.
“Pretty much,” he says. “Do it again.”
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
I hit the bag again, listen to the thud, the chains rattle.
I hit it again.
Thud.
Rattle.
Again.
Whack.
Thud.
Rattle.
Again.
My hits become harder, faster. I become better at it in a matter of moments.
“Okay. Now, use your left foot to pivot.” He holds me by the waist, turns me. I keep my left foot in place, but rotate my right foot around until I’m facing the other way. When his hands leave me, my skin is left tingling.
“Good,” he says. “This is where you get your power from. It’s not in the arms, it’s in the hips and legs. This is a one-two. See? I jab with my left.” He extends his left arm straight out. “But it’s a fake or a test. He’ll counter, dodge or slap it. Then I cross with my right.” He throws a punch across his body with his right, at the same time pivoting on his left foot, getting his body behind the punch. “Your legs give you the power. It’s a combo. Try it.”
I do it slowly first. I jab with my left, straight out, then I pivot my weight, cross with my right with more power.
“Again,” he says.
I do it again.
“Harder,” he says.
I hit harder.
“Faster.”
I hit faster.
Again.
Again.
I hit the bag, jab, pivot, cross, pivot, jab, pivot, cross, pivot.
The chains rattle constantly. The bag thuds with each of my hits. My hits get harder, faster.
Jab, cross.
Jab, cross.
Jab, jab, jab, punch, punch punch, punch…
I wail on the bag, hitting it as hard as I can, throwing my whole weight into every punch. I hit it and I hit it and I hit it until I realize that my eyes are wet, that tears are streaming down my face.
I keep hitting it, harder and harder.
I hit it so hard it shakes the bones in my body.
I hit it so hard my hands ache.
And then I hit it some more.
And then I kick it.
I kick it, and I kick it, and I kick it, and I scream as I beat on the bag, again, again, again, again.
And then I’m spent. It’s over. I’m sweating, heaving, panting. I’m no longer crying. Somehow, I feel better.
I fall backward onto the mat, landing on my bum, and I hold onto my knees, sucking in oxygen. I glance up at the clock and see that twenty minutes have passed.
Twenty minutes!
I wipe my no-doubt red eyes, turn them on Duncan. He sits down opposite me, crosses his legs. He takes my right hand and begins to undo the glove. He takes them off one by one, then starts unwrapping the bandages around my fingers and wrists.
His fingers are so soft, so gentle with me. I just watch as he tends to me.
“You’ve bruised your knuckles a little,” he says quietly, holding my right hand and running his fingers over the knuckles. His touch sends sparklers sizzling through me.
I close my fist in his hands, squeeze, feel the pain of the bruise in my knuckles as the blood rushes there.
His hands close around mine, and then I unball my fist, and our fingers link at their tips.
“Is this what you do?”
He nods. “It works.”
“I never knew.”
“The bag is designed to be responsive. Your mind does the rest. I find it therapeutic.”
“I hate living here,” I say. It just slips out of me. “I hate everything about this place. About my life. I hate seeing all this shit. It’s not the first time I’ve watched Dad ‘teach a lesson’, and I know it won’t be the last. I can’t stand how he treats people.”
“I know,” Duncan tells me. “You’ll be able to move out soon. Once you go to college, right?”
I take in a deep breath. “Yeah. But you won’t.”
Chapter Eleven
Duncan shrugs.
“Before this, I had nothing. Now, I have something.” He looks at me, holds onto my hand tight. “I’ll get out eventually. This won’t last forever.”
Our fingers entwine, and my breath hitches, and I want nothing more than to push myself into his arms. As if reading my mind, he scoots forward, captures me in his strong arms, and pulls me toward him. His hand is huge on the back of my neck, hot, and he tucks hair behind my ears, presses his forehead to mine.
“Are you okay?” he whispers.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“You got a good workout in.”
“Yeah,” I say through a laugh.
I press myself into him more, and then turn, let him wrap me up from behind. I’m embarrassed that I’ve cried in front of him, and I don’t want him to see my puffy eyes.
He holds me tight, his chest against my back, my fingers in his, and I’m thinking to myself that this is insane. What is going on? Why am I letting this happen? Why do I want this?