EDALThree weeks.Twenty-one days of staring at the concrete ceiling, waiting for the bleeding to stop. Waiting for the ghost of the pain to leave my stomach.The blood was gone. The fever was gone. And whatever softness I had left inside me was completely buried under the mountain floor.The lower training bay was freezing cold. The air smelled like rust, sweat, and old concrete. I stood in front of the heavy leather punching bag, my hands wrapped tight in black canvas strips. No gloves. I wanted to feel the impact. I needed to feel something that wasn't the empty, hollow ache in my gut.*THUD.*I threw a heavy left hook. The leather groaned under the hit.A right cross. My shoulder burned. My breath came out in short, sharp puffs of white vapor in the cold air. I didn't stop. I kept moving my feet, striking the bag over and over until the canvas started to scrape the skin off my knuckles."Your left guard is dropping," a flat voice said from the iron stairs.I didn't turn around. I
Read more
LOGIN
