I'll See You Later

Chapter 7

"Well, well, well. Who do we have here? Th—"

"That's not my name," I say calmly. These people and I have a long history, which I happily dominate by intimidating and scaring them off. I'm not breaking that streak now.

"Ah, yes. My apologies, Scarlett Royston."

I sigh, bored. "Now that we have figured out that you know my name, what the hell do you want, Greg?"

He gasps theatrically, as a couple of his men file into the room as if on cue. I roll my eyes at the dramatics. "Manners, Scarlett! Please! I was just here to see Julie."

My eyes narrow. He's trying to rub salt on the wounds of not being able to work on any army business while I lay low.

"I know you haven't forgotten about the many ways that I proved myself back at the academy and in the force. Because I know this isn't the case, you must simply be too scared to talk things out with me. Well, I can understand that. I'll leave you amateurs to wait for Julie to be back. Call if you need me."

With that statement, I turn around and tiredly walk up the stairs. While I don't like these men, I still trust them to be left alone in the house. We aren't friends, by any means. But they are on the force—we actually trained together. Which means that while they like to try to prove that they're better than me and get on my nerves, it also means that they know how important it is for me to stay low. They won't screw up my cover, I know that.

They will, however, rub it in my face that I supposedly quit my duties as a soldier like a coward. That's the story that was spread around to all members of the force except for the elite soldiers. So those men, my friends, Julie, and a few of my other acquaintances know that I was forced into this torture.

The rest of the members think that I ran away from the force.

They think I ran away from the only place I consider home.

They think I ran away from fulfilling my parents' last wish.

They think
that I am
a coward.

Just thinking about it makes me want to punch something. Too late, I think with a grim smile. I thought about it.

After going to my room, I enter my walk-in closet, and slide the hangers on one side of the wall to the side. The door that is revealed opens to a staircase which leads to the basement. I pull it open and close it behind me, surrounding myself in a cold blanket of darkness.

I jog down the three stories' worth of steps in a flash, and step into the basement. Our basement isn't like any other basement. Oh no, it's practically a gym. Not a "gym", like some other basements, with simply a treadmill, weights, and a ping pong table. But a real one.

The walls are roughly carved stone, but the floor is wood smoothed to perfection. Punching bags of different weights and materials hang on the side of the rectangular basement from which I entered. The same wall also holds a rack of weights ranging from 20 pounds to 300 pounds, and a bench for them lies in the corner. The wall on the right proudly holds gleaming knives and guns of all different styles and types.

I smile with fondness. I love this place. With a glance at my phone, I see that it's 4:03. Julie will be home in an hour, so I have plenty of time.

Standing in front of a 90-lb punching bag, I form a fist and stare at it. I focus all of my bitter thoughts, negative emotions, painful memories, like a laser. Then, with a resounding thump, I hit the leather bag with all the force I can muster.

● ● ●

People often refer to sobbing their eyes out as "it was like a dam broke." But I actually love my English class, so the analogy of a dam in relation to tears is too literal for me.

I prefer "a dam breaking" to mean a flood of emotion. Of memories. Of life.

'A flood of life.' That has a nice ring to it.

So after that first punch, a flood of thoughts overcame me, and the dam broke. Punch after punch, I pounded away on that bag like my life depended on it. My head hurt like crazy as I all of my pent-up emotion surfaced, but it soon faded away to a numbness as my punches were less driven than instinctive.

I was like a primordial, predatory animal. I acted, didn't think. Punch, punch, punch. Eat, breathe, sleep.

Now, I sit next to a leather punching bag whose worn surface is cracked in spiderwebs of minuscule tears. Its blood, grainy and brown, spills from its many holes as a soul would. The bag is on the floor. Beaten. Used. And maybe forgotten.

But I don't like forgetting.

And the poor thing didn't even have an epitaph. I'll make one then:

Life will punch you in the face.
 I was punched in the face.
But not by life.
Because Life shall not have all the power,

of this powerless world.
Horseman, pass by!

"Bravo, Punching Bag! I love your epitaph. You are—was—just as good a writer as you were a punching bag. You will be missed!"

I check my pockets for some kind of paper, and when I find a receipt, scribble out the epitaph. I chuckle to myself at its ending, then place it deep inside the bag in the sand. Maybe someone will find it. But hopefully no one will. 

I glance at my phone. 

It's 11:54 pm.

Julie was home almost seven hours ago.