Fighting Shadows!

A strike of hesitation

"So, you've learned a few tricks, haven't you?" he sneered as he struggled to stand up. I knew I should have seized the opportunity and struck him while he was vulnerable, but fear still gripped me tightly, allowing him to take advantage of my hesitation.

"Your mother was weak, and that got her killed, just like you," he spat, his words dripping with venom. A surge of anger consumed me, and I blacked out.

I slowly opened my eyes, my head pounding and my body aching. As I lay there on the cold, hard sidewalk, I realized that my left eye was almost swollen shut. It was a struggle to even open it just a fraction. My ribs screamed in agony with every breath I took, and my knuckles were raw and bloodied. How did I end up in this sorry state? And where was that monster who had done this to me?

Trying to piece together the fragments of my memory, I closed my eyes and concentrated. But it was futile. My mind was blank, like a vast expanse of nothingness. I couldn't remember a damn thing about what had happened to me, or how I had ended up lying here on this desolate sidewalk.

I glanced around, squinting into the darkness. It was a moonless night, and the feeble glow of the streetlights did little to illuminate my surroundings.

A taxi pulled up and asked me if I needed help. I pulled myself up from the floor and climbed into the taxi.

  I need an escape now. I need to get out of this trap.

    "Where to miss?" the taxi driver asked.
    "Mr Blake's apartment."

Blake POV

As I jumped out of the car, my heart raced with worry and confusion. Seeing Emily sitting on the staircase, her face swollen and bruised, I couldn't help but feel a mixture of relief and fear. What had happened to her? I rushed towards her, my mind racing with questions.

"Seriously, Blake, we have to get going!" Vicky's voice pierced through my thoughts, her impatience evident. She climbed out of the car, her irritation palpable. But I couldn't focus on her right now. My attention was solely on Emily, who looked like she had been through hell and back.

Ignoring Vicky's complaints, I knelt down beside Emily, gently searching for any visible injuries. Her knuckles were busted, a clear sign that she had fought back. A small smile tugged at the corners of my lips, proud of her for standing up for herself. But the fear still lingered within me.

"That's my girl," I whispered, my voice filled with a mix of admiration and concern.

"Blake?" Vicky's voice cut through the air, demanding my attention.

"Just call a damn ambulance," I snapped at her, my eyes never leaving Emily's battered form.

"No hospital," she said closing her eyes again.

Every inch of me wanted to make sure she was okay.

"We have to get going." Vicky huffed and stomped her feet like a petulant child denied attention. But I couldn't bring myself to care about her tantrum. My focus was entirely on Emily, my mind flooded with memories of the first time we met. This time, however, things were different. This time, I actually... no, I couldn't say it, not even in my own mind. I didn't know how she felt or why she had come to me in this state.

As I lifted Emily's beaten body into my arms, I couldn't help but feel a surge of protectiveness. She had chosen to come to me, despite the pain she had endured. It was a painful smile that graced her lips, but it was a smile nonetheless

"Open your eyes, Em." I carelessly pull my fingers through her hair. Her eyes open slowly but can't stay open for long periods.

  "Em, what happened?" I asked when her lips moved.

  "She's gone." She lets out in a crying voice.

Through her muffled sobs, she manages to utter, "She's gone, and I never got to say goodbye to her." My heart constricts at her words, the weight of her regret permeating the air. I can only imagine the torment she must be enduring, the longing to have one final conversation, to express her love and gratitude to the one she has lost.

My voice quivers as I ask, my own emotions threatening to spill over, "Who is it?" I need to understand, to grasp the magnitude of her sorrow. She pauses, her bloodshot eyes locking onto mine, filled with a mixture of anguish and vulnerability. I give her a moment, allowing her to collect herself before she whispers, "My mother."

Her words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken pain. My heart breaks for her, for the void that now exists in her life. I hold her tighter, wishing I could absorb her grief, wishing I could turn back time and grant her the chance to bid her mother farewell. But life is cruel, and it often denies us the closure we so desperately seek.

Lizzy left and I walked upstairs to my apartment with Em in my arms.

We sat on the couch as I held her steady.
My heart aches as I listen to her recount the events of the previous day. The desperation in her voice, the raw emotion in her tears, it all consumes me. She had tried to fight her stepfather, to protect her mother, but in the end, she felt powerless. The weight of guilt settles heavily upon me as I realize that she didn't even know how to protect herself.

"Em, please breathe," I plead, my voice filled with genuine concern. I hold her tightly in my arms, hoping that my presence alone can provide her with some comfort. But she continues to tremble, her sobs echoing through the room. It's as if the pain is consuming her from within, and I feel utterly helpless.

In an attempt to distract her from her anguish, I gently lift her up and carry her towards the gym room. Her legs instinctively wrap around my waist, seeking support, while her head rests wearily on my shoulder. The sound of her tears is both heartbreaking and infuriating.

Once inside the gym, I carefully placed her on the ground and retrieved a pair of boxing gloves from the nearby shelf. Confusion crosses her tear-stained face as she watches my every move. I know that now is the time for her to release her pent-up frustrations, to channel her pain into something physical.

"Take a deep breath, Em," I instruct softly, my voice laced with determination. "And let it out."

She follows my guidance, taking a shuddering breath as she tries to regain control over her racing emotions. I position her in front of the heavy punching bag, its sturdy presence serving as a symbol of resilience. I can see the unbearable anguish etched upon her face, and it sends a shiver down my spine. I can't bear to witness her suffer like this.

With a gentle push, I encourage her to release her anger, her pain, and her fear. I watch as she unleashes a series of powerful punches, her fists connecting with the bag, each strike carrying the weight of her torment. The sound of her busted knuckles impacting the fabric echoes through the room, mingling with her laboured breathing.