All For You

Eighteen

Isla

Air hisses out of the punching bag as I hit it, the chains holding it up clanging aggressively against each other.

Loudly, and I wish it'd stop. Technically, I'm not supposed to be doing this.

I'm not supposed to be in this gym at all, according to my stupid brothers and worried father—and for some reason, a very serious August—but I can't help it.

I've spent the last three days realising I suck at everything.

I can't paint—big shocker—and I can't read; I have the patience of a fucking ant.

I can't even bloody cook.

I tried baking, and playing more video games, and even just laying on my bed staring into space, but I hated it all.

I don't like anything.

Well, except for swimming and punching this stupidly loud red bag. But I can only swim so much without drowning—or turning into a grainy old lady—and my fists are starting to ache.

What else am I supposed to do?

Sleeping a good eight hours every night is plenty of rest and recovery for me. Most nights I barely get five hours, so my bodies fucking thrilled right now.

I feel light as a feather.

I've already healed.

I don't even have any bruises anymore, and the constant ache in my body is so faint now it's almost not there.

But now all I want to do is move. Even if my family keeps telling me, over and over and over, doing anything more exertive than yoga is prohibited.

"I knew it!" Hayden yells, peeping his head in the doorway. I exhale, wiping my forehead. "She's exercising!"

"Isla!" Warner yells, speeding into the room. I rub my red knuckles, blowing cool air on them. I probably should've worn boxing gloves, but I thought that'd make more noise. I'm not used to them, anyway. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing much," I mutter, cracking my fingers and neck. Stretching my arms and bending over to touch the ground. Hanging there, because the pull on my legs and lower back feels nice.

"How are you supposed to recover if you don't let yourself?" Eliott asks me, his arms crossed and his eyebrows raised. He looks more like dad than dad does right now.

Nick walks into the room nonchalantly, his hands in his pockets, yawning. Why is everyone even up? It's only seven.

Normally, especially Hayden, everyone gets up an hour or two later.

"I've already recovered." I sigh, picking up my water bottle and taking a sip. I look back at my brother's, the five of them now-Elijah came out of nowhere-and then over my shoulder, to the open matted area behind me. "You guys know how to fight, right? Show me."

"What?" Warner asks.

Ever since I saw them all fighting in the gang war-and ever since Hayden held me in that alleyway so expertly-I've wondered how good all of them actually are at fighting.

If they could beat me, or if I could teach them a few things dad couldn't.

"Come on. Let's fight," I tell them, walking over to the open space near the back of the gym I'm sure they use to fight against each other. "Show me what you've got."

"Isla, none of us are gonna fight you," Eliott says, in disbelief. "It's...you. Not to mention you're still recovering from your overdose."

"What? Are you scared of me or something?" I mock, and then laugh. Not that they shouldn't be, but fears the last thing I expect them to feel when it comes to me. When none of them budge, I groan, pleading with my eyes. "Come on. Please? I'm so bored. It's not like you'll hurt me or anything."