A Touch Of Hate

Chapter 3

Verity

"You are holding it wrong. Again." Kenny's low voice made me jump in place. I turned sharply, my sloppy grip on the blade wavering and the weapon dropping to the uneven stones of a walkway with a loud clang.

"How long were you watching?" I gasped, avoiding looking into his eyes. His gaze often made me uncomfortable. It was too scrutinising and calculating. It felt like he was constantly testing and evaluating me, looking for a reason to throw me back into the dirt pit he had picked me up in.

"Enough to notice that the last lessons I'd given you went nowhere," he grumbled, nearing and leaning down to pick up the discarded weapon. He offered it to me, holding it by the sharp edge instead of the handle. My hand slowly encircled it, thumb drugging along the rough surface encrusted with leather cords and meeting my forefinger. Kenny shook his head in disapproval.

"You know better than this. Tell me, what is your target?"

I focused on the log I was hitting before Kenny showed up.

"A wooden dummy?" I finally offered, shifting into a fighting stance.

"No. You are fighting humans, not logs. Not even Titans. So, you need to hold your weapon accordingly." He reached out then, the tips of his fingers barely touching mine.

The wave of sickness rolled over me in seconds, burning the back of my throat with the acid-like taste. Unpleasant goosebumps rose at the back of my neck, shivers rocking my body. I jumped back on pure instinct, barely avoiding Kenny's touch. When I was a few steps away, and he couldn't reach me, I exhaled, forcing my breathing to slow. My heartbeat flew up in a matter of seconds, just on a threat of a single touch. A feeling that was ruined for me, stained with years of pain and suffering. The fear was as uncontrollable as it was enslaving.

"I'm sorry...." I mumbled, still fighting for a breath and searching for words to explain my behaviour yet again. Kenny ignored me, though. Instead, he moved to the side and picked up another blade, showing me his hold on the handle instead of moving my hand. His palm slightly turned to the side, and his thumb followed a straight line formed by his outstretched wrist and the blade's sharp edge. I looked down at my hold, only now realising what he meant.

"I don't need that much power when I fight humans. I need speed and agility. Hence, I don't need to grip the blade this tight," I looked up then, finally meeting his gaze.

He smirked at my answer and kicked the back of my boot forward, forcing me to shift my leading leg. "This is much better. Soon enough, you will actually be of help."

***

Training went better than I'd thought it would. I could lie and tell myself I was strong and could do whatever. But I knew my limits. And everything physical was outside of my abilities. That didn't stop Kenny, though; the training he'd put together was more than my frail body could handle. At least in the very beginning. It took weeks to build up some sort of stamina to keep up with his cardio routine. All the muscle-training exercises, as unbearable as they were, slowly grew fruitful. My body turned into a hurting mass by the end of each day. Most evenings, I couldn't even wash up before falling asleep on the floor of Kenny's one-room country house.

He made me spar, hand-to-hand combat being my least favourite. I could handle blades, however weakly. But being touched was something else entirely. Pure fear overpowered me with a solemn idea of physical contact. It had taken quite some time for us to figure out how I could still train using gloves and long-sleeved shirts. Tree trunks and dummies were my most common sparring partners. It was better than not having any training at all. However, it left Kenny in a sour mood for a while.