I don’t know when I started to believe I couldn’t do this. Maybe Bruce sees something in me that I can’t see, but when I first started here, I felt like I was being drowned by the possibility that I’m doing everything wrong. A murder happens. Just violence in the streets. It’s simple, right? There’s no thought to it and for some reason I can’t do anything about it. I wasn’t fast enough. I got there in time to see someone die.
I’m hitting a punching bag, probably not doing anything good to my hands, and it’s the only way of venting I currently have. I take an occasional water break but this latest streak of punches has been going for the past twenty minutes and there’s no stopping yet. I think what could stop me at this point would be passing out completely. I’m breathing loud and the breaths are uneven.
I definitely hit harder than I did before. Maybe that’s good, right?
I had been watching him for about 15 minutes. He was stressed, frustrated. He looked like he was losing faith. Faith in himself and what I knew he could do.
I had read about the murder. There was no way I could ever completely walk away. I always checked up on the news and I had access to things. I wasn’t giving that up completely, walking away without checking on everything I had created. He was right for this but I knew what he would be going through. Hell in the head.
I step forward out of the shadows.
“That punching bag isn’t going to take away the thoughts you have. Only you can do that.”
I feel a bruise starting to form on the knuckle of my ring finger and that’s not a good sign. Maybe I should slow down but I—
My train of thought is interrupted when I hear a voice- a voice I’ve grown to know pretty well. It’s like when I get interrupted, my body forgets what it’s doing and remembers to be tired. The person that I’m trying to look strong enough for… right. I slump forward and hug the punching bag so I don’t fall completely even though my arms feel like spaghetti.
I take a few breaths before I can even look at the guy, or answer for that matter.
“Would bleaching my brain work? What do you know that I don’t?” I press my forehead into the hard material. “… Besides everything.”