I turn the music up loud, the blaring of some old rock band in my ears. I’ve always hated fucking silence. It’s easier this way. Always has been. The sounds of neglect and torture drowned out. Creates a sense of detachment.
I swing my fists hard against the punch bag, blow connecting with force, speed, gut punches, making the bag swing back and forth, pendulum like.
I go at it until I realise there’s not enough anger in me to forget Amy.
Trying to take her down is like being in the ring, except she makes me more breathless. It was an unfair match from the start. Boxing is the sport of kings or something. But this — her — is the damn opposite. She’s the sport for the poor and the desperate, men willing to break their minds, hearts and souls.
I didn’t think I’d care about anything ever again. Stuff people care about, like babies and kittens and rainbows and shit. But all that shit could make me smile — genuinely smile knowing she is in the fucking universe.
My breathing becomes heavier, punching out on the exhale, faster, harder, the music in my ears creating a fast beat that I replicate with my body. Faster. Faster.
The indication I’m no longer alone comes when the harsh strip lighting snaps on and the entire gym floods with bright glaring light. I remove the ear buds, letting them trail down to the floor and lean over to grab my water bottle. I take a deep swallow, allowing some water to trail down my throat to mix with the sweat on my heaving chest. I look at my watch.
Damn.
Three hours. Three hours of sparring at the boxing gym, and I can still hear myself fucking saying it. She's probably long since forgotten it. Probably didn't even notice it. Not like the way I have to all the time replay her saying, ‘I used to love you.’
I think about jumping rope or lifting some weights, but fuck if that’s gonna work.
Weeks into not fucking Amy, I figure it's time to do something. She won't come see me, even if I beg. Even if she does, I promised not to touch her. I've already burned through with training and beating the bishop, but it isn’t taking the edge off anymore.
There's nothing I can do but go see Amy, even though I know it's a mistake. I don't know how big a mistake it is until I go into her room, later that evening.
I take a step forward closing the gap between us, my pulse increasing, my blood pumping. I reach out across a gap that isn’t just distance but a gap of seconds and hours — and five fucking years of absence.
All that time wasted.
‘I missed you.’
Damn, it sounds pathetic when I say it out loud — all chicky and girly and shit. I don’t do feelings well. I find my hand stopping, knowing I can’t do anything in the confines of her room. I want to take her in my arms and stroke her hair, but I know I can never touch her again.
It’s been a long time and my right hand’s been no comparison for her pussy. No fucking match for that passion or intensity. It’s been far too long since that hot, dirty-as-fuck night — twisting in sheets and just taking what we needed from each other. Before I gave her space. Space that’s now torturing my goddamn soul.
Christ, the way she looks with her tits and in my white T-shirt . . . I manage to get about five words out, including her name. The other four are something bad like, ‘Can't keep my promise.’
She stands up and her eyes go wide and a little wild. Don't know why I ever thought I wanted my soul back. Looks fine right where she's got it.
All I want is to fuck her until we’re both raw and wasted, until my cock can’t get hard no more. I open my mouth to say something else, but there must be some animal thing in me other than the beast, some urge to protect my girl, even from me. Because I don't do what I want to do. The ache is there again — to say or do something bad. So she gets mad or hurts so much that the only thing to take away her pain is my body.
Make her need me.
MINE.
I’ll never heal, not ever. I’ve fucked up, just like I always do. But when I’m with Amy, she makes all that shit go away and sometimes I think I’m okay. Hell, better than okay.
Thinking I might hurt her, that's what stops me long enough for me to get away from her.
After that, I can't go near her. I talk to her on the phone some nights. Just about drives me insane. It's like I can still smell her, like that smell is stuck in the back of my brain. Makes my cock hard all the time, and looking at her on screen, everything she does is porn. The way she touches her neck, sucks on the end of her pen, runs her hand over her hair when she stands up.
I jerk off until I'm raw, and I still want her.
42
YOU
I ARRIVE LATE for breakfast the next morning, and take my seat before noticing Daisy isn’t here.
After we’ve eaten, we go to Magpie Ward and settle in for group therapy. Rebecca looks around her group, trying to think of something constructive to say. It must be hard, keeping positive, with a group of girls who want to disappear. Relief flowers on her face as she looks at Daisy, who’s seated next to me on a green beanbag, looking as ethereal as a fairy on a leaf.
