Don’t try to fix something that was born broken.
The door clicks shut. Their footsteps fade.
I finish taping the second hand and step into the ring. The canvas gives under my weight. Same as always. Like it knows me.
I don’t put gloves on. Just raise my fists.
Thud.
Thud.
I hit the bag harder than I should; the bag doesn’t hit back.
But I pretend it does.
The first punch is tight. Controlled. All in the shoulder. The second lands harder. Heat spreads across my ribs.
I need the ache. Need the sting in my knuckles. I need something real.
Because the look on her face is still there, behind my eyes. That soft, wet look like I’m some wounded fucking dog she found on the side of the road. The kind you’re supposed to put down. Not pet.
Fuck.
I slam the bag again. The chain groans. The hook screeches in the beam above.
But it’s too late.
I’m not in the gym anymore.
I’m back there.
Fourteen. Brighton Beach. Sweat in my eyes. Blood in my mouth. And no one coming to help.
It was the old butcher on Neptune who gave me the first job. Foma. Crooked spine. Liked to call medetkawhen he was drunk andmal’chikwhen he wasn’t.
“You fast?” he asked, stuffing a fat roll into butcher paper, grease soaking through.
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Liar,” he muttered. “But we’ll see.”
He handed me the package. No smile. Just a nod toward the alley out back.
“Wait there.”
I waited.
Still had my school shoes on. Laces fraying, soles flapping near the toes. Mama used to sew them back together with fishing line.
Back when she was alive.
The alley was narrow. Smelled like rot and hot metal. I stood between two dumpsters, hands clenched around the paper-wrapped weight.
After five minutes, I thought maybe I passed. Maybe they were watching, testing.
Then I heard footsteps.
He turned the corner like he owned the fucking world.
