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Well… I lost my home.

I wake up choking on my own breath.

For one fucked-up second, I don’t know where the hell I am.

Not my penthouse.

Not thirty years old.

I’m nine again.

A little boy standing in the snow, watching his entire fucking world bleed out in front of him.

“Fuck.” The word tears out of my throat.

I jerk upright, chest heaving, sweat cooling against my skin. My hands are already clenched, my jaw locked so tight it aches.

That fucking nightmare.

Some memories fade with time. Others sink their teeth into you and never let go.

This fucking one?

It will haunt me until they put me in the ground.

Annoyed, I shove the black sheets aside and check the clock.

Three hours.

Three fucking hours of sleep.

That’s all I get these days. If I’m lucky.

Dragging a hand down my face, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. There’s no point trying to sleep again. The second I close my eyes, I’ll see the snow. The blood. My Ma’s face.

And I’ll be nine years old, begging a dead woman to wake up.

I head downstairs to the private gym like I do most nights.

The place is dark, cold, and blessedly empty. No voices. No cameras. No people asking for things I don’t know how to give.

I wrap my hands, tighten the tape around my knuckles, and start swinging.

The first punch lands hard.

The second harder.

Then I stop counting.

I hit the black bag until my shoulders burn and my knuckles throb beneath the tape. Until sweat runs down my spine and my lungs scrape with every breath. Until the chain above me rattles with each brutal impact.

I hit it harder.

Because pain I can understand.

I keep going until my arms feel like lead and my fucking thoughts finally shut up.

By the time I stop, the sun is rising.