The Wrong Way to Rock Bottom | UPDATES Fri/Mon

31

Present day

I can do this. I am Dark Side Lissa. I destroy all in my path.

Eye of the Tiger blasts from my phone to try and give me some encouragement as I wrestle with Amanda's ridiculously heavy punching bag. I'm not strong enough to lift it, so I have to do this combo hug and shuffle move that results in very slow progress. It's giving me too much time to think about my plan.

Amanda had gawped at me like I'd grown two heads when I asked if she had a spare punching bag. Not because she didn't have one—Amanda owns a surplus of punching bags, for obvious reasons—but because she's been trying to get me into kickboxing since before it was even cool. I've always turned her down in the name of non-violence, but now, I'd told her, I had seen the light.

What I'd actually seen was a post on reddit about some guy who tried to hang a punching bag in his room and tore out a chunk of his ceiling. If I'd told her that, though, she probably wouldn't have said yes.

There's this little voice in the back of my mind telling me that this is a really, really bad idea. I'm guessing it's the voice of reason people keep telling me about. It insists that there are a million ways that this can go wrong, many of them ending in bodily harm, and fairly brings up that it's kind of hypocritical to get so mad at Jamie for endangering my employment when I'm doing the same thing to him. So, good to know I have that.

I decide to ignore it.

It's not like I'm just doing this on a whim. I've thoroughly researched and prepared myself. I have a handful of tools I borrowed from Jamie, and I've already drilled holes in the places the guys on reddit specifically said not to drill into. My online alter-ego, Barney, is very thankful to the carpenter dudes for all their detailed advice on how to avoid a ceiling catastrophe, which included what types of drywall anchors would do the most damage and should be avoided at all costs. Obviously, those are the ones I bought.

I feel a little proud of myself, honestly. I now know the difference between toggle bolt and strap toggle anchors, and why sometimes anchors that are designed to distribute the weight more evenly can end up bringing chunks of drywall with them when they inevitably fail. Give me a couple weeks, and my parents won't even need Jamie.

In my head, Imaginary Jamie hears this and doubles over laughing. Okay maybe that's going a little far.

I finally drag the punching bag into position beneath the chain I've already hung. Now comes the hard part. I've set up the ladder so I can use it as a support to hold the punching bag up while I attach the chain, but I still have to get the bag onto the ladder. This task kind of makes me wish I'd taken Amanda up on her offer to help me set it up.

I psych myself up for it by reminding myself of my goal here: make Jamie suffer. He'd had the nerve to laugh when I told him what happened at Walmart, making me so mad I think I actually stomped my foot at one point. When I'd yelled that he almost got me fired, he claimed that it would have been totally illegal for them to fire me unless they had proof that I broke company policy, and being stalked did not count. I didn't care. I told him he'd crossed a line when he messed with my job. He didn't seem to think I meant it seriously. 

Well, who's serious now, Jamie?

Fueled by my rage, I go into a squat, wrap my arms around the bag, and lift with my legs. I'm not an unfit person, but I like to do outdoorsy, aerobic exercise, like biking or swimming. I've never focused on upper body strength. I'm really regretting that now. 

After a good five minutes of huffing and puffing, I get the bag onto a high enough step of the ladder that I can attach it to the chain. Then I maneuver around the bag and climb the ladder, too, performing a gymnastic feat when I balance and hook up the punching bag at the same time. By the time it's ready to go, I'm covered in a thin layer of sweat, and I really need a nap.

But my masterpiece is finished.

Stepping back so I don't get smushed, I pull the ladder out from under the bag and immediately flinch in anticipation of the drop. 

Nothing happens.

The bag swings lightly from the ceiling, not even making any weird creaky noises. Clearly my untapped potential for home improvement runs deeper than I thought, and is now working against me. 

I hit the bag a couple of times, from a safe distance, to see if that will trigger a collapse. It feels like poking a bear, except instead of the raging monster I wanted, I got a cheery little Disney bear. 

My little jabs say, Hey, buddy. Don't you want to fall?

The punching bag says, No thanks! I'm having a really fun time!

Growling in frustration, I give up on keeping my distance and just pull as hard as I can with both arms. It's hard to get a grip, though, because of the bag's material. It would be much easier to push, but I can't reach the top of the bag on my own.

I move the ladder back into position, climb to a better vantage point, and push down on the punching bag with all my might. Then I let my whole upper body weight just lean on it. Nothing. Freaking nothing. It's rock solid.

In a move of pure desperation, I push off the ladder and jump onto the bag. 

I can't be completely sure what happened after that. I know I heard a crack, and there was someone screaming who was probably me. I remember hitting the floor. Then it all goes black.