Wild and Out of Control

|chapter forty-seven|

|xaden|

Riorson. She called me fucking Riorson.

     My breathing harshens as my movements quicken, my arms moving in a quick motion against the punching bag. The training is almost second nature now, something I do when my mind is thinking too much, and my heart is feeling too much, and I need to purge. The gym is quiet at this hour, which is rare. Everyone during this time is either in someone else's bed or studying for their classes. I have no upcoming exams in my classes, and the one person whose bed I would do anything to be in is slowly pulling away from me.

     If she hasn't already...

     She called me Riorson. She hasn't called me Riorson ever since I told her I love it when she calls me Xaden, and it makes me feel like my heart was carved out of my chest and smashed with a hammer. She said we were never in a relationship, and what we had wasn't real. She said that she was using me like I was using her, which couldn't be far from the truth. If I wanted to use her for my plan, then I wouldn't have fallen in love with her. I never mix business with pleasure.

     I only pause to readjust the wrap on my hands. They must've gotten loose with the many punches I took. I retigten in, the frayed and stained fabric tight on my hands, evidence of tonight's purging session. I would usually purge through releasing my magic, but since I don't feel like walking to the forest or scaring the hell out of everyone in the quadrant with a tsunami of shadows, I went for the physical exertion instead.

     I begin again.

     The punch lands with a dull thud. I don't feel the impact, not really; it's like hitting through water or fog. My shoulders roll, my weight shifts, and I drive another strike, then another. A steady rhythm grows—left, right, breath, left, right, breath. I imagine the bad feelings shaking loose with every hit, flaking off like dust.

     Hit.

     That anger sitting heavily in my gut.

     Punch.

     That grief I haven't spoken aloud.

     Strike.

     That hollow numbness I keep pretending isn't there.

     Jab.

     I punch until my arms hum, until the bag trembles from the force I pour into it. Each strike is a word I can't say. Each exhale is a memory I don't want. I feel the sweat sliding down my temples, dripping from my chin, but I don't wipe it away. Sweat means I'm still here. Sweat means something inside me is still trying.

     The numbness had crept in slowly, quietly. At first, I welcomed it. Pain was sharp, immediate, impossible to ignore. Numbness was soft, like a blanket thrown over the sharp edges. I tell myself I prefer it. That it's easier. That if I just hit the bag hard enough, long enough, maybe the blankness will fill the spaces that grief of a broken relationship had hollowed out.

     My fists land faster now—quick snaps, like I'm trying to outrun the thoughts trailing me. The bag swings wildly, chains rattling above me, but I don't slow down. I welcome the small burn in my lungs, the tightening in my shoulders. Those I can feel. Those I understand.

     I don't notice the rawness blooming beneath the wraps. Or the way my wrists start to throb. My body aches to be acknowledged, but I refuse to stop. I lean into the pain because it's the closest thing to clarity I have left. Pain doesn't ask for explanations. Pain doesn't demand that I admit to anything.

     But eventually, breath catches up with me. The world tilts a little, stars pricking along the edges of my vision. I stagger back, hands dropping to my sides. The punching bag sways lazily, as if relieved to rest. I stare at it, chest rising and falling in heavy pulls. My knuckles pulse, and only then do I feel it—not just the physical ache, but something deeper, something that trembles beneath the ribs I've spent months trying to armor.