Krigare

ett

Tre år senare

"Faster," Jaimë urges and I force my fists to work at top speed.

"Faster," he wills again. His brows are drawn in towards each other. I note dissapointment. I kick it up another notch, and feel the corners of my vision lose pigment.

"FASTER, KRIGARE!"

•

My fists are nothing but bruised, numb balls once it's over, and my head is pounding. If my knuckles could speak, they'd either be begging for mercy or screeching in immense pain. I'm no different on the inside.

The training's been commencing for three years now and the pain is still surreal. It was unbearable at first, but I've grown slightly accustomed to it by now.

"I'm not saying it doesn't hurt," I tell Mason as I make my way towards him with a lift of my shoulder. He has perched himself upon a small white chair in the corner of the room, and had been watching us train the entire time. His arms are folded across his chest as he studies me.

He knew me solely as a boxer. He wasn't around in the days I used to filch in the streets. The dark days, as Julian would call them jokingly.

"But of course it does," he says back. He gazes up at me, his expression that of a small child's. His light blue eyes are full of wonder and boredom altogether. His strawberry blonde hair is combed back neatly. He has on a maroon sweater over his crisp, clean white shirt and striped tie. Sherlock High' informal uniform. He looks stunning, as he always does.

He shrugs, and begins to get on his feet. "You may not love the pain but you'll have to if you w-,"

"Want to love the gain, I know," I cut him off, smiling at my best friend. I'm lost in thought, then, and I stare at him without uttering a word.

"You all done?" he asks, gandering.

"Yeah," I say, swinging my mini-towel over my shoulder. "I'll just hit the showers for a bit," I tell him, already turned the other way with my gym bag in hand.

He calls out my name and I turn, already halfway across the room.

"I'll see you later, then?" he asks, and I nod, smiling. "Later," he says, lifting a hand before walking out. I continue in my stride.

The underground showers reek of blood and cheap cosmetics, as they always do. God knows why the stench never left. The only people that ever used these showers were the athletes. The smell of peanut make-up was probably Christina's. Bill and her always seemed to be in these showers.

That also probably explained the used rubbers in the bin.

The showers are at a loss for doors, and I was easy about it. I peel my top off first, leaving it upon the bench along with my sports bra, shorts, knickers and trainers. All the bathrooms in SH had cupboards stocked with towels, especially the one down here, since this is where all the athletes trained. The Underground Ring, as they named it. Odd enough, in the recent years, mixed martial arts had grown profusely amongst teenagers here. The school was happy to provide, seeing as to how martial arts resulted in media representation. Attention whores.

I am standing, bare, under the ice-cold tendrils when I hear someone push through the heavy door. The footsteps pause as they hear the sound of running water. Heels? Down here?