The pain in Nathaniel's wrist never stopped these days. It was distracting when his fists hit the punching bag. A measured pair of hits from his right hand. A hard jab from the left, aiming high.
The others in the gym didn’t bother him none, they could watch if they wanted. He knew he had the reputation as the weirdo that did his workout with his hat on. He taped his knuckles and stepped up to the bag; start slow Nate! Just because you can be fast doesn’t make it effective! His smile was wide, and relaxed as he cocked his arm back. And when his fist struck his eyes relaxed. His look glazed over. This was Home.
He’d been here an hour. His hat and jacket were left in a locker and here he was training. He almost hated it here now. How quiet it was in the pre-dawn hours. How easy it was to clear his head to keep his thoughts in order. Really the days had been easier back before all of this personal mission; when he could go to the gym and clear his head of thoughts instead.
What was even the point of coming here? He knew he could run literal laps around any of the guys out here. Dakota was not exactly Boxing Country, and he knew that the actual fight clubs wouldn’t let him in the moment he was dodging every swing. There was nothing here to give him a thrill.
Socioeconomic distress gnawed at his thoughts; how can you inspire someone to wish they weren’t hungry?
A left hook, turning his hand to grab the bag and slam his knee into it followed by a snap-punch to the core to push it away and set it swinging away slightly.
None of these thoughts bothered him now. It was just him and the bag. Him and imagining the praises and thrills of taking some chump down from Bragging Buffoon to Crying Idiot with a dozen well-aimed hits. Maybe even someone who’d go even, landing a couple of their own so he could thrive.
Fears he’s heard about for days about simply keeping Rights. Safety. How was he supposed to help keep people safe when they can’t feel safe in their own homes? He stepped back as the bag swung away, and then stepped into it with another slam of metal knuckles that he owned, attached to his arm, hitting it hard enough with the strike to arrest all of the momentum.
The rattle of the chain and the shock up his arms. Imagining a counter and moving to block it while hitting back. There was nothing. No concerns. Only the excitement of what he could do. Where he could push toward.
None of these fears were wrong to have…
He was breathing heavily. Two hours going at this bag even if he hadn’t been going all out was at least still Activity. The prosthetic fist remained resting against the leather and his chest heaved as he simply… Watched. Twitches of metal underneath a case responding to nerve signals…
He finally snapped out of it when he jumped up to back-kick the bag, and the bolts finally gave out. The whole assembly ripped from the ceiling, the bag fell, and part of the rafter came tumbling down with it. The chunk of lumber snapped toward him and in an instant he’d gotten his hands around the chain to catch it. The furrow in his brow was indignation. Frustration. Even a thing that was supposed to be able to keep up couldn’t cut it.
His knuckles slid down the bag and the hand slapped against his leg loosely. His left followed suit, shoulders and arms all going slack so that he could look Nowhere and stand in the room with No One in it. Not even Nathaniel. His thoughts were everywhere else.
He let go of the chain while his eyes stared at the subject of his disappointment. Then he spat on it all. And turned to leave. It wasn’t the first thing he’d broken and the management wouldn’t dare. But he was done here… His red and silver jacket got picked up, whipped over his shoulder, and he was Gone.
Why did it have to happen to him?
He turned to put his back against the punching bag and used it to brace against while he let himself slide down to the floor, keeping the thing against his left shoulder. The one he knew was at least mostly still him.
His jaw set, and the thoughts finally set in. How am I going to get out of here? Only a couple places are even worth going to with this.
His thoughts. His head. All of it simultaneously buzzing with incoherent thought even as he knew what the tone of the answer was, but tone isn’t words. Tone can’t save people.
“I don’ even wanna be famous. Or rich. Fuck they’d be nice’n all but… I jus’ wanna prove what I can fuckin do…” But nothing answered him except a frigid midafternoon wind. And given it was december there wasn’t even the decency of the sun to blind him off the snow.
“Fuck it. Don’t care if it’s the usual answer… There aint a damn fuckin thing out ‘ere, so I guess we’re headed to the coast…”
“Wha’ was that line…?” he asked the tone, trying to bring it into an empty room.
“Make a name fer myself.”
“‘Bout courage an’ fear.” the tone stirred slowly, changing viscosity as he looked inside.
“See if I can’t teach them fucks how to stand up for a fight…”
“Courage aint the lack of fear, but standin up even though yer afraid…” The tone recoiled away, this was not what he was thinking. He chose the wrong words and he knew it even before he said them. He’d rushed ahead and-. Stop it, Nathan… Breath… Think…
“Hell, I aint scared of what happens out there. Either this all works, or they’ll put me in a hole, right?”
“It… Doesn’t matter. Does it?” it came back. That idea. That ephemeral notion of what he strove for. Remembering the feeling he had when he decided what he was going to do and committed to it.
He kept talking. Not even putting imagination in his words. No sincerity. Only bravado as fact. Only damnation as enterprise.
“Jus’ gotta keep tryin to do better. More than safe… Gonna find ways to help people hold onto hope.”
“Gonna go out there, and get what’s mine. By the lord, I’ll fuckin do it. No more’ve this pussyfootin around-” by this point he’d already walked home through snow and pride and slush. By this point he already had his emergency bag out, and his clothes bag halfway packs.
Halfway past too late.
He stayed there, letting that tingling feeling hold him and letting his head hang so the patchy white and blonde hair hid him like a shroud. Both of his arms swung up to rest his elbows on his lifted knees and he listened. His breathing. His heartbeat. The tone and feelings in his mind.
“We can do better. To be someone they’ll be proud of. Nothin’ else to do but hope, an’ act on tha’ hope.”
There it was. That calm feeling. That tomorrow was not promised and that’s okay… So long as we greet it all with a smile, and love.
He smiled as he looked over the assembly of bags and supplies, and one way plane ticket in his hands, so sure of himself. Sure this was the right thing to do for everyone. Hells it wasn’t until halfway to the cab, he even chuckled about imagining how pissed Lorelai’s gonna be when she finds out he’s skipping out on his lease. The only real distraction from that smug thought was how much his right wrist itched while he was hauling his bags into the trunk.
