"No!"
"Punch. It."
"You know what? Fuck this!" I snarl, turning to walk toward the door. My mind goes haywire instantly. "I gotta get back tomy wife—to my sons—I-I gotta fix this—"
"Atlas! Don't you walk away from me!"
Stopping mid-step, I turn and spit out, "Fuck you."
"Fuck me?"he barks, a harsh laugh ripping from his throat, holding his hands out. "Yeah,fuck mefor raising a weak man who abandons his family!"
My anger flares violently, the words I've repeated to myself now coming from my father. I'm not seeing my dad in front of me; I see myself.
My weak, pathetic, useless self telling me the truth.
"Fuck you!"
"You angry, boy?" He sneers, pointing to the bag. "Show me. Fucking punch it!"
I sigh and throw a half-hearted punch.
His lip curls, and he crosses his arms. The anger is a thick blanket in this cold room, freezing and scalding all at once.
"What is going on, Atlas?"
I swallow hard, gritting my teeth against the words that threaten to explode out of me.
"Nothing."
"Wrong answer," he points at the bag. "Punch it."
Frustrated, I snarl and punch the bag harder, feeling the sting in my knuckles.
It hurts, but then there's... something underneath it.
A relief. A warmth, spreading from my chest outward. It feels good, and I want to grab it, hold onto it.
"Why did you leave your family?"
I shake my head.
"Punch it!"
I punch harder now, and then again.
The pain, the relief. It cycles again.
"Why, Atlas?"
Punch.
"Why, Atlas?"
Punch.
"You weak? Is that it?"
Punch. Punch. Punch.
