The rhythm sets in.
Jab, cross. Jab, cross.
I feel more power in my hits and less of a shock.
The burn comes slow at first, creeping into my forearms, settling into my shoulders. The repetitive impact makes my knuckles sting beneath the wraps.
But I can’t stop.
Because stopping would mean thinking. And thinking would mean realizing how much my life has changed.
I blink away the tears threatening to spill over.
My days used to be filled with the sound of rustling stalks in the wind, with the steady rhythm of life I had always expected to live.
Now I wake up before dawn to train until my muscles scream.I stand in open fields, commanding elements I was never meant to wield. I don’t recognize my life anymore.
I don’t recognize myself.
“Again,” Thane says, voice even, steady.
I snap back to the present, inhaling sharply as I drive my fists into the post again.
Jab, jab, cross. Jab, cross.
It hurts. But so does everything now. And I’m starting to wonder if that feeling will ever go away.
“Use your core,” Thane calls. “Your power starts there. Pull from it.”
I adjust. Hit again.
Jab, jab, cross.
I grit my teeth, adjusting, throwing another punch.
Jab, jab, cross.
The impact shudders through my arms, my muscles burning with every strike.
“Again.”
Jab, cross.
“Turn into it. Your whole body moves with the hit, not just your fist.”
I correct, twisting my hips with the movement. The strike lands better, sharper. But my arms are aching, my shoulders screaming. Still, I keep going.
“Again.”
I keep throwing punches, driving my fists into the target as if the motion alone will carve something new out of me. Make me forget.
Somewhere between the repetitions, between the burning in my muscles and the rhythmic impact of my knuckles against the leather, my mind slips.
Jab, jab, cross. Jab, jab, cross. Again.
I hear the wind rustling through tall stalks of grain.
Jab, jab, cross.
