Blood On Her Hands

Chapter 19

The steady, rhythmic pounding of the punching bag was competing against the sound of my heart in my ears. Each blow I delivered was an explosion of energy. I felt it leave my body in sporadic sparks, igniting a flame within me that felt untamable. Though my limbs grew heavier and ached with passion, something wasn't letting me stop.

I wasn't actively imagining the faces of all my enemies as I delivered the blows, yet the aggression was there. There were complex emotions underneath every jab, every right hook, that threatened to overtake me if I didn't release them into the lifeless sack of sawdust.

At first, the boxing session was torturous. I had to go through numerous rounds of laps around the gym, several sets of burpees and crunches, and a vomit inducing amount of jumping jacks. It was as if my instructor, a bulky woman with broad shoulders and calf muscles that were the size of my thighs, had taken one look at me and decided I needed to be broken down. Whenever I would stop moving, placing my hands on my knees as I tried to remind myself what it felt like to breathe, she yelled at me in her thick Italian accent. She would say "If you can't handle this, then get out of my gym!" It awakened my anger but more so my pride.

It kept me going.

It was a few minutes into the actual boxing where I had reached an euphoria. It was like I had reached the top of a mountain. I ached all the way down to my bones but the worst of it was over. My body was warm and adrenaline was swimming through my veins. I wanted more.

My instructor, Gina, had demonstrated some basic moves and had me copy her as she critiqued my form. She didn't have to make many corrections but instead of complimenting how well I was doing, she upped the intensity.

As I returned my borrowed gloves into the bin at the back of the gym, a towel hanging over my shoulder for the showers, Gina stopped me. I was about to thank her for the class but she spoke before I could get a word in.

Her tattooed eyebrows narrowed at me. She was only a few years my senior. I had seen pictures of her as a teen on the wall of the gym's entrance. It seemed like she had been boxing her whole life.

"You would do better if you were in shape," she said, crossing her arms over her neon pink sports bra. I could smell the strawberry scent of her deodorant. "Start working out regularly. You need stamina in a fight."

With that, she left me.

After a little more pushing from Vincent, I decided to take his advice and learn some self defense. It felt a bit silly to me. If my attacker had a gun, then punching and kicking was useless. I couldn't deflect bullets with a roundhouse kick. But Vincent was persistent. He reminded me that I couldn't predict how I may be attacked and that I needed to arm myself with as many skills as possible. What really got my attention was when he said that the biggest thing self defense would do for me was build my confidence. I would be more certain I could help myself.

I think I got a piece of that from my first class. It was part of the addictive feeling I felt. It was embedded in the euphoria.

When I came out of the gym, I was showered and clean. My hair was wet, making the light breeze send goosebumps all the way up to my scalp. Gone was the sweat stained t-shirt and yoga pants, replaced by dress pants and a blouse. I wasn't wearing them because I wanted to but because my family thought I was working at the local library with Vincent. I didn't know why I was trying to keep boxing a secret. It wasn't like I was doing anything wrong.

Vincent was waiting for me outside the gym. He was leaning on a parking sign, his phone in his hand like he had been idly scrolling through it. He nodded at me in greeting, his features impassive though he had made no indication he was going to meet with me today. I had told him about going to the boxing class and happened to mention when but that wasn't an invitation for him to tag along. Maybe there was an update in the case.