Page 3 of Fractured Fear

He broke me down lie by lie with each strategic word. Then he rebuilt me so many times that eventually there was nothing of me left. I was the doll he wanted, the perfect image of an obedient little servant, and I stayed through all of it. I never once tried to leave, I didn’t even threaten it.

I shake my head to give myself a reset. I can’t remain a passenger on this thought train, it’ll send me into a panic. That’s not something I want to do today. Instead, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other and lengthening my stride. I embrace the burn in my legs and the sting in my lungs. The pain brings me back to the present rather than letting me journey through my upsetting past.

As I arrive at Joey’s Gym I try and fail to take deep breaths, relieved I don’t have to battle my own brain anymore. This place has been a sanctuary since the first time I walked through thedoors. As I walk inside, my mind is cleared of the fog that is always present after a nightmare.

Here, no one looks down their nose at me. Here, I am powerful. Here, I am in control.

“You look like shit,” a gravelly voice says to my right.

I look and see sweet old Joey standing behind the front desk. The white haired man always says that. It’s like his way of saying “Good morning, beautiful. Aren’t you just a glorious ray of sunshine on this otherwise dreary morning?”

Ha. Yeah, the charming lightweight champion from 1979 would never let those words leave his mouth.

The first time I met him he came off as harsh, but he quickly changed his tune.

“What do you want?” he asks gruffly when I approach the front desk. There’s that New York charisma.

“Umm. I saw in the window that you offer self-defense classes,” I say without looking him in the eye, keeping my gaze cemented on the floor.

“Hey.” His voice grows soft.

I glance up and see that look in his eyes. Pity. I hate pity. I don’t need to be pitied. “I just need classes,” I say in an attempt to sound firm. “If you don’t have any open spots, just let me know and I’ll be on my way.” My tone gets stronger as I speak each word.

He returns to his brash self but still not as rough as when I walked in. “I got a spot for you. No need to get your panties in a twist.”

And that was that. I signed up for classes and now he trains me one-on-one. Every morning he tells me I look like shit and I respond with…

“And you look like a shriveled up dick.”

It’s our way to check in with each other. If he ever greeted me differently, I’d be worried he finally lost his mind and succumbed to old age.

“Get some water and go stretch. You’ll be no good if your muscles lock up ten seconds in.”

I walk over to the dinged-up fountain attached to the wall, take a sip, then stretch on the mats. As much as I love to hit inanimate objects, stretching also calms my mind. There’s no room for anything else in my brain when I feel the pull of my muscles as I fold forward and reach for my toes.

Once I’m all stretched out and ready to go again, Joey sets a grueling pace. Burpees, jump rope, back squats, and leg lifts. He says we’re not getting in the ring today because I went too hard yesterday, but we both know it’s because he can see the shadows under my eyes, so today is just strength training. Weights mixed with cardio. Basically death.

He’s never asked why I’m here and I’ve never told, but he knows. Joey knows when to push and when to back off. On occasion, I’ve cried during workouts. Usually after a terrible nightmare while I’m at the punching bag.

One day in particular was especially difficult. In my dreams, I had relived the worst part of my last night in Texas, and I couldn’t shake my body’s natural responses. Joey made me stop sparring when my tears blurred my vision and involuntary bursts of noise started to escape my throat. He pulled me into his office, sat me on the couch, and didn’t say a word. I wailed from the agony I felt. Not only did my ex break my body that night, but he also broke my heart.

Joey sat next to me and pulled me into his arms as my tears puddled onto his shirt.

“It’ll be okay. It’s just for now. This pain isn’t forever.”

“But it hurts so bad,” I expressed through the haze of relived trauma.

“I know, kid. I know.” He didn’t let go until the sobs had subsided. Then he called a cab and took me to The Mudhouse. We sat for hours, conversing over cups of lukewarm coffee.

Not once did Joey ask what had happened or what I had been through, that’s not him.

Now when those memories haunt me from sleep and into the light of day, I go straight to the punching bag. As I pound the leather with my wrapped fists, I imagine what I should have or could have done differently that night. I imagine punchinghimin the face. I imagine running sooner than I did.

I can’t change it now, but I can prepare. I can train. I can continue to be stronger than the fear I’m fracturing one punch at a time.

CHAPTER 2

SPENCER

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