Take Care

Chapter 1

The pain was still there but it had faded as they continued assaulting the heavy weight bag. Each hard swing meant a slice of satisfaction with hearing the THWACK against the cloth. Over and over, their fist pounded into the bag with years of learned precision. The amount of pent up energy never failed as they punched.

It was early in the morning, orange rays filtering through the dusty glass, illuminating the sweat falling, it tracing around tensed cords of muscle. Their breath made the dust dance around them, in mesmerizing patterns, but they were too focused on the bag in front of them. So focused, not even a stray thought came to mind. Not one, besides... Well, it isn't a thought.

No, it's them sitting at home, phone on the floor, tears rapidly falling from their face. Sitting in shock at the news of their brother being run down on the street. Sitting in shock with no one else to go to. No one who would care or protect them if trouble came for them. They couldn't hear the phone with the disembodied voice asking them if they were ok.

Punches continue raining down on the bag, it swinging from the force. Their knuckles, unwrapped, had long since broken skin. Blood was all over their fists and spattered on their wrists. Where each punch landed, blood was left behind. But they won't stop. They just couldn't, just can't stop, because then it would be real. It can't be real, so they won't stop.

Tears mingled with the sweat on their face, stinging their eyes. With eyes so blurred, they tried yet again to punch the bag, but instead of landing, they missed. The momentum swung them down onto the cold ground into a heap. They lay there, heaving breaths in as they sobbed. They were alone, so what would it matter if they cried/screamed/destroyed everything?

All the energy they have now was now focused on crying. They wailed for their brother, for him to come into the door, to tell them that it would be ok, that he will take care of them. God, they want him back, to please come back, don't be gone, please, please, please come back!

They lay there crying, the pain intense in their hands. , kept crying until they felt sick, until they were numb and out of tears to shed in his name. With the tears gone for now, they had to take care of their hands, they could do that. Then they can take a shower, then go see his bod-. No, don't think about that. Just take care of the hands and then shower. They can do that so long as they don't think about how he said he'd be hom-. Dammit, stop it!

They slowly got up from the ground, using only their legs, hands held close to their chest in fists. At their feet, they walked away from the bag to the sink on the wall across the room. Under it was a First-Aid kit, but they had to wash the blood off of the wounds first, Reaching with their elbows, they turned the knob with the blue C on it. Water came out of the short necked faucet. They let the water run for a minute, watching the flow hit the basin then slid round the drain until it eventually slid down its depths. They put their right fist in first, clenching their jaws and hissing at the sharp pain of contact on the open wounds.

Pink water now fell from their hand in a river, an even darker pink when their other fist was added. Breathing through the intense pain, they rubbed the blood away with stiff fingers on opposite hands. They worked up from the tips of their fingers, to their palms, to their wrists. After getting most of the blood off, they reached over to the knob and ceased the continuous flow of water. Flicking the water off their hands and hissing at said action, they tried to dry their hands with the last piece of paper towels left on the roll.

They then crouched down, the First Aid kit in sight, and plopped into a sitting position. Grabbing it, they put it in front of their crossed legs and opened the kit. Taking out everything they needed to wrap up their hands, they then just stared at everything, zoning out. (TBC)