Atlas Grove, once a dancer with dreams of dancing under the stars, now lives petrified in the shadows of abuse. To escape her living nightmare she must keep her head down and work hard, being her senior year this is her last chance to get out. Altho...
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And that was how we ended up at the gym. I sit on the side-line, back against the cinderblock warehouse wall and watch Blaze as his fists pummel into the worn leather punching bag that hangs down on a chain that looks seconds away from snapping. His biceps flex, veins bulge underneath his skin. A sheen of sweat covers his tanned flesh. His stubbled jaw clenched so tight his molars must be dust on his gums. Knuckles red and bloody as they smear across the red fabric of the bag, hair plastered to the top of his forehead. He moves skillfully, swift and aquiline. Watching with such narrowed concentration then striking the anger and pain into the bag.
I watch silently, admiring his angry form jab into the bag, sweat drips onto his long eyelashes but he doesn't so much as blink. I managed to drive us here without crashing and when we pulled up outside the gym Blaze practically jumped from the car whilst it was still moving and dashed in. I'd text Jack in advance who'd left the place open as long as we lock up when we leave... and not, majorly, break anything. Blaze had been silent since we left the parking lot glaring out of the window, fists clenched, leg bouncing. He didn't even quip when I drove way too slow... probably slow enough to get some sort of ticket or fine. His knuckles look painfully redraw and he's not slowing down, my heart hurts every time his beaten flesh hits the bag. I've lost track of time but I know he's been doing this for well over an hour, he's punishing himself again for something that's in no way his fault.
I can't watch this anymore.
Pushing myself off the rather gritty floor I tentatively walk over to his brooding figure, teeming with so much anger I can practically taste it in the air around him. His eyes stay trained on the bag smeared with lines of blood, distant and chilling.
"Blaze." My heartbeat drums in my ears, "Blaze stop. Please." Nothing. Not even the slight twitch in his face that he's even heard me. "Blaze." I step closer into his peripheral vision. Still, nothing, transfixed in this self-loathing state, the pain residing behind the anger pushing to breakthrough. I reach out carefully and place my hand on his damp shoulder, squeezing slightly.
He whips around, nostrils flaring as the bag swings behind him, his chest moves up and down violently as I take a step closer putting my palm on it. "Blaze." I sigh looking down at his knuckles.
"What Atlas. What!" He shouts, stepping back from me into the still swinging bag, the smack of his sweaty flesh against the leather rings through the gym.
"Talk to me... please." I combat the space between us with another step towards him.
"There's nothing to talk about." He mumbles turning back to the bag, hands moving to strike again. Snaking between him and the leather I reach out to grab his fists, careful not to worsen the sores and wounds littering them. His harsh breathing streams from his nose, eyes glaring down at me.
"There is and you know there is. Stop torturing yourself, what happened was not your fault. Please... just stop hurting yourself." Water crests my lashline as I struggle past the lump in my throat. His silence stretches between us as he searches my eyes, blinking a few times before softening. Sorrow and hurt hurtling into his features, his shoulders dropping, head curving inwards. His hands shake as he runs them down my arms, strands of his wet hair falling into his eyes.
