Slight background, Keith's punching bag is makeshift using what he found around the castle, which is why it swings so much. Normal ones don't sway too much but I imagine Coran helped him fill his with a hard-hitting yet super lightweight material on accident, not completely understanding the purpose of a "punching bag".
Also, 4 days late but do you even expect me to be on time anymore? This is also unedited but I'm too busy to go back and read through rn. Maybe I'll do that later tonight.
Keith's POV
I pant, numb to the ache in every single muscle of my body as I bring my loose fists up again. A cool drop of sweat slides down my temple, following a slick path until it collects in a bead under my chin like ones before it, waiting to drop. Ignoring the searing pain burning in my palms I clench my hands, burying my shortly cut nails into the thin bandages wrapped over my skin. My eyes narrow at the battered punching bag, like it was the internalized battle I was having with myself and not a victim of my inability to deal with my own emotions.
I inhale, feeling the sharp sweep of air go down my day throat and fill my lungs as I steady myself for another round despite my fatigue from hours of practice without rest. But it didn't matter- Not my dry throat, my burning palms or my weary arms.
It didn't matter because even their pain wasn't enough to distract me from the agonizing guilt in my chest.
I let out a shout of anger, throwing a barrage of punches at the hanging, heavy bag. My emotions loom sadistically behind the fury, provoking my anger to surpass my normal and undeniable hotheadedness. It swings back on impact, allowing a moment of patience for it's return. In the second of wait my thoughts are instantly brought to the waging war inside my head, too overwhelming for my to decipher how I actually felt
I throw another punch as it swings back down, hitting the side and making the bag swivel around.
It was just all so jumbled in my head. How in my mind it was so complex yet the only thing I could express was my rage. I felt as if I was drowning in my own emotions and couldn't even swim to surface. Like I had crashed into the sea and didn't know what was up or down, where I was or why. Only instead of the sea it was my mind and I couldn't understand what was keeping me trapped. Though, there was at least one emotion I was sure of feeling.
I felt pathetic.
I felt pathetic on so many levels- And I didn't want to acknowledge any of them. How I felt, how I still feel so weak, so helpless when I should have done something, anything, instead of freezing. Instead of- of letting it happen.
My anger gets lodged in my throat as I throw my fist down, hitting the bag at angle and sending it back to gain more momentum than it needed.
I wouldn't dare say it because that meant truly accepting the fact I had been scared when I shouldn't have been. I didn't deserve to feel scared when she was the one in actual danger. The fact I had even felt that, no matter it's duration, made me want to pull my hair and punch something at the same time, inflicting punishment on myself and something else at the same time. But that wouldn't change the consequences of my negligence. So now I was lost, my emotions left to destroy my self control and succeed in their attempts to overwhelm my mind with a problem I was incapable of solving. Whenever I couldn't handle it, Y/N was there-
My chest tightens as a pang of guilt runs through me, pulling me from my physical coping for just a moment. My arm falters in my distraction, weakening my punch to basically nothing. As it ricochets off the returning bag a shooting pain runs up my forearm, making me flinch back.
