Jackson dropped Marley off at the kickboxing studio at 9:15 p.m. He didn't say when he'd pick her up, and she didn't ask. They both knew she'd probably spend the night there, attacking the bag with a ferocity she only ever had when she'd been rejected. He'd suggested, in the tone of one asking even though they knew the answer already, that she come to his apartment and sleep first, then come to the studio tomorrow, but she'd said she wasn't sure she could sleep until she spent some energy first. A blatant lie—even after she'd exhausted herself, she knew she wouldn't sleep. She'd just lie there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, wondering what she'd done this time. She couldn't sleep knowing that they didn't want her. Who would?
I'll never be loved by anyone, she thought, watching Jackson's car pull away from the curb, backpack a familiar weight on her shoulders. My mother loved me too much. She used up all my allotted love and now I'm doomed to be hated for the rest of my life.
She died and took it all with her and now I have no one.
As if sensing her mood, the dark, heavy clouds looming above the city opened, rain falling softly at first and then turning into a downpour. Marley sighed, holding her hands out to catch the drops. "I know," she mumbled to the sky. She took one final glance at the street, the city's lights glowing against the night rain, then turned her back. She didn't wasn't meant to look at this kind of beauty. She was meant, apparently, to never see light in anything. Only dislike. She stepped under the awning and pushed the door to the studio open. The bell tinkled to an empty front room.
"One moment!"
Steve, hollering from the studio. He jogged in a few moments later, wearing sweats and sneakers and a gray Underarmour shirt with a collar of sweat, his dusty blond hair glinting under the fluorescents. When he saw Marley, his pleasant how-can-I-help-you expression fell away. "Marley?"
A question—hoping it wasn't her. He didn't want her in this place ever again, probably.
"Hey, Steve," she said, jamming her hands into her pockets, offering a sarcastic smile.
"What are you doing back here?" he asked. "Trip to New York? How's the new family?" Hope lined his face, the shape of his shoulders. Please be gone soon.
Marley shook her head, careful not to show an ounce of disappointment. "Nope. We decided it wasn't working."
"'We' or 'they'?" Ah—there were what she liked to call the Eyebrows of Righteousness.
"They," she said. "Got a free punching bag?"
"Only Beck's here," he replied.
Eyebrows of Righteousness on fleek, she thought. "Neato."
"Who is it?" Beck shouted from the studio.
"Marley!" Steve shouted back.
A beat of silence, then: "Of course it has to be her." Sarcastic, but Marley knew she meant it. She brushed past Steve, dumping her backpack on a bench and pulling out some workout clothes. A few minutes later she stood in the studio, hands wrapped, barefoot, watching as Steve hooked up a punching bag.
"Won't we ever be rid of you?" Beck joked, elbowing her.
"Nope, I'll stick around here until you guys die," Marley answered.
Beck heaved a big sigh. "Well, at least you're a decent sparring partner. When you actually try."
"Oh, would you like me to actually try this time?" Marley planted her hands on her hips. "C'mon, let's go a round, right here. I'll pack your face into the dust before you can begin to throw your first punch."
"All right, bring it on, turtleshit." Beck faced her, a smirk dancing across her lips, hands coming up.
"Uh, no," Steve broke in, shooting Marley a warning look. "Let's have you both get some excess energy out before you start whaling on each other." He gave Beck a gentle push. "You get back to the ring and shadowbox."
Beck groaned. "I've been shadowboxing for hours—"
"You've been here for forty-five minutes. Go."
Beck winked at Marley and strode off to the ring.
"I could've taken her," Marley said idly.
"I know." Steve checked her wraps, redoing one even though they were both flawless thanks to years of practice. "That's what I'm worried about."
Marley frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I'll tell you when your forty minutes on the bag are done." He finished rewrapping and slapped her palm. "Hop to it."
She walked over to the bag, trying to mask the misery in her steps. "Can you watch me to make sure there's anything I need to work on?"
"Yeah, sure." Steve often said she and Beck were his favorite pupils, because they wanted to improve. And actually listened to him, no matter how much they pretended not to. She faced the bag and started, straight punches first. Her first few were sloppy—it'd been four months since she'd done this. But her muscles soon found the rhythm that had been ingrained in her for years, and slowly the stiffness washed away. The studio's scent wreathed around her, sweat and wood and bag leather. The bag rattled on its chain; her knuckles ached familiarly with each punch, her feet squeaking on the floor as she moved around the bag. With each punch anger rose inside her, the bag slowly morphing to form Joslyn's face. Why—didn't—you—want—me, she drove out, each word a punch. What—did—I—do—
The world washed away by anger, grief, guilt, self-loathing, she pounded at the bag methodically. Left-right-left-right-kick-right-right-left—
On and on and on.
YOU ARE READING
Resilience | ✔
Fanfiction'You're my father,' she said bluntly, and immediately wanted to jump out the window. || started july '18, completed july '20
