I find a word inside myself. “Sorry,” I manage.
“It’s okay, Roman. I just …” He trails off, breathes out. “It’s okay,” he repeats, but I know that’s not what he was going to say.
He’s choosing not to tell me. I don’t like that. It’s different from being unable. ButI’munable. I don’t have the words to draw the truth out of him, so I repeat myself too. “Sorry.”
His hands lift from my chest. He strokes my head, feathering my dark, buzzed hair. It used to be longer and wavy, kind of like my brother’s. I used to be vain about it.
It was short like this when Lucas met me. He’s never known me any other way. He accepts me like I am, which I feel when his hands settle on the back of my head and he leans forward to press his forehead to mine. I close my eyes, grateful and ashamed.
I don’t actually know what I’m ashamed of. It’s too vague. I just know that I feel it in this house.
Lucas sits up and lets his hands drift down my neck, returning them to my chest. He’s still unhappy, but he’s found a place for it inside himself. He’s put it away.
“We should work out,” he says. “Then we can make breakfast.”
I can tell he doesn’t actually want to work out right now. He wants to stay here and read, but I’ve ruined it, and he wouldn’t be happy if I left him. I’ve tried it before when I got like this.
So I nod.
We return to our bedroom upstairs so Lucas can get his shoes. I prefer to be barefoot.
While Lucas is putting on his shoes, I feel the urge to start pacing. I resist it by going to the sliding glass door and looking out across the deck to the stretch of lawn and the trees. There’s still no danger. No one to fight.
“I’m ready,” Lucas says, drawing my attention back to him.
We go down to the gym on the lowest level of the house, where I can hear light footsteps on a treadmill. I know it’s Sasha before we even walk in.
In place of the black fatigues and tank top that she wears while actively on guard duty, Sasha is dressed in gray shorts and a black t-shirt. Her toned arms and legs move in fast, rhythmic motion as she runs. Her long, dark braid is bouncing against her back. She glances over as Lucas and I enter. Everyone in this house is alert for danger. Everyone but Lucas.But he doesn’t need to be. I don’t want him to live like that.
The gym is huge, easily ten times the size of my old cell. It has so much more than the punching bag and pullup bar that were my only activities before Lucas was thrown in with me, but I still find myself ignoring the array of free weights and machines in favor of the bag. Sometimes I spar with Quinn, but I would never spar with Lucas. I don’t trust myself enough, and I don’t like the idea of swinging my fists in his direction, not even to spar.
He starts stretching on the sparring mats while I get going with the punching bag. Lucas sometimes tries to get me to use the gloves, but I don’t like all that stuff on my hands.
Lucas stays with me for a while, half stretching, half lounging, but once I’m deep in the familiar rhythm, he gets up and goes to join Sasha on the treadmills.
That’s good, of course. There’s no reason for him to sit and watch me, but I still kind of hate it. Lucas is mine.
I punch harder and faster.
When I hear Lucas laugh, my eyes jump from the bag to him and Sasha. I see his head turned her way, but I can’t hear their words over the whoosh and pound of the treadmills.
I like that Lucas laughs with Sasha. Ido. But it’s hard to hear right now, when I feel so incapable of being part of it. I block it out.
I focus on the bag, on the rhythm, on the mechanics of my body. The problem is that it’s so fucking artificial. The bag hangs heavy and inanimate. It doesn’t fight back. I don’t have to think or react. Every second is the same, every movement a repetition. It’s more endurance than effort.
As my hands go numb, my mind slips into a different place. I keep hitting the bag, but I stop being fully aware of it. I hear the thuds of my fists and rhythm of the treadmills, but the sounds transmute in my head. My back muscles get tight. At first, I’m aware that they’re just tugging under the scar tissue, but the numbness spreads through my body and confuses me.
I hear the whip whoosh through the air. The snap is loud, but the impact against my back feels dull, more of a punch, more like pressure. I know the pain will come later, but I don’t feel it right now. I’m numb. I just endure.
It’s better to stay silent at times like this. It’s not always possible, but I do my best.
It could be mere seconds that pass, or hours. Pain distorts time.
I hear a voice.
That voice is saying my name, but it doesn’t make sense. I don’t have a name, not here, not anymore. I’m just the Beast, and it’s better that way. The Beast can handle this.
“Roman!”
