I strap the training gloves on, the black vinyl flexing against my knuckles, the double-wrapped binding tight against my wrists. I take my simple stance: legs shoulder width apart, left in front of right, bent at the knees.
Damn you for looking so beautiful tonight.
My opponent for this sparring session? A six-foot “Wavemaster” model, the XXL, that boasts 400 pounds of weight to keep it planted regardless of what you throw at it. Its sleek black skin – the sort of ebony they might have lied about when discussing African warriors back in the imperial age – taunts me.
First punch – “one,” a jab, used to find range to your opponent. You find power at the full extension of your reach because it lets you get the full momentum and waist-swing involved. Follow-through is important, but the punches that really explode happen right at the end of your range. The jab is at a good reach; I hit it, but couldn’t push through too far.
Screw you for being so talented.
Second punch – “two,” a cross, one of the more powerful punches. Since it’s coming from your back arm, you can swing your hips into it. Plus, your back arm is going to be your stronger one. Add this to a step in with your left foot, allowing for even more speed to the attack, and it’s easy to see why this technique is important to master. I hit the bag with force and it falls back momentarily.
Forget this.
Third and fourth punches, both jabs.
Forget all of this.
And a cross. Cross again. Then kick. The kick comes from your hips, too, and will always be done with your back leg. You want your shin bone to make contact with the side of their upper leg. Almost no one stretches that part of their body right but we’re always using it: it’s dense with nerves, and it’s always tight. The sole purpose of this kick is to inflict pain. My legs are stronger than my upper body; the bag tilts on its side then falls back into place with a noisy thud that likely disturbed the downstairs neighbors. It is almost midnight, after all.
God – fucking – damn it.
Jab, jab, cross. Cross, cross, kick. Kick, kick, side elbow. For the side elbow, you bright your fist into your chest to strike your elbow across their face. It requires close range, but you’re working with a lot of bone and you’re aiming for a fragile surface. It’s easy enough to break a nose, or even crack open someone’s forehead. I saw one fight where they had to halt the action just to be sure the elbow-made gash wasn’t bone deep.
God. Fucking. Damn it.
Jab, cross, cross. Jab, cross, side elbow. Cross, cross, kick, cross. Kick, kick – pause. On that last kick I forgot to raise my hands to protect my face. I need to practice that. It’s easy to drop them if you’re not concentrating. I reset my stance.
Damn you for looking so beautiful tonight.
My opponent for this sparring session? A six-foot “Wavemaster” model, the XXL, that boasts 400 pounds of weight to keep it planted regardless of what you throw at it. Its sleek black skin – the sort of ebony they might have lied about when discussing African warriors back in the imperial age – taunts me.
First punch – “one,” a jab, used to find range to your opponent. You find power at the full extension of your reach because it lets you get the full momentum and waist-swing involved. Follow-through is important, but the punches that really explode happen right at the end of your range. The jab is at a good reach; I hit it, but couldn’t push through too far.
Screw you for being so talented.
Second punch – “two,” a cross, one of the more powerful punches. Since it’s coming from your back arm, you can swing your hips into it. Plus, your back arm is going to be your stronger one. Add this to a step in with your left foot, allowing for even more speed to the attack, and it’s easy to see why this technique is important to master. I hit the bag with force and it falls back momentarily.
Forget this.
Third and fourth punches, both jabs.
Forget all of this.
And a cross. Cross again. Then kick. The kick comes from your hips, too, and will always be done with your back leg. You want your shin bone to make contact with the side of their upper leg. Almost no one stretches that part of their body right but we’re always using it: it’s dense with nerves, and it’s always tight. The sole purpose of this kick is to inflict pain. My legs are stronger than my upper body; the bag tilts on its side then falls back into place with a noisy thud that likely disturbed the downstairs neighbors. It is almost midnight, after all.
God – fucking – damn it.
Jab, jab, cross. Cross, cross, kick. Kick, kick, side elbow. For the side elbow, you bright your fist into your chest to strike your elbow across their face. It requires close range, but you’re working with a lot of bone and you’re aiming for a fragile surface. It’s easy enough to break a nose, or even crack open someone’s forehead. I saw one fight where they had to halt the action just to be sure the elbow-made gash wasn’t bone deep.
God. Fucking. Damn it.
Jab, cross, cross. Jab, cross, side elbow. Cross, cross, kick, cross. Kick, kick – pause. On that last kick I forgot to raise my hands to protect my face. I need to practice that. It’s easy to drop them if you’re not concentrating. I reset my stance.
My breathing is heavy, but that started before I picked up my gloves. That started the moment I was far enough out of eyesight from you that I knew you wouldn’t see me react; call it a panic attack or minor freakout or whatever you want, but I was holding it in that entire time. Thinking of your goddamn shoulders in that dress. Thinking of the brightness of your smile set into those faery cheeks. Thinking of the way you laughed from across the room.
Jab, cross, cross, cross. Jab, cross.
Thinking of your new haircut.
Kick, kick, kick, jab, cross.
Thinking of the way you read your words, the melody of your voice.
Jab, cross, side elbow.
Thinking of the bedding and the headboard and the new bathroom decor and the thousand other things I bought to try and make you happy here. Thinking of the thousand things I was trying to make that you’ll never see. Thinking of the suffocated plans, asphyxiated dreams, that won’t ever be written.
Jab, cross, cross, cross, cross, cross, cross, cross, cross.
Now, with each strike, the bag is dragging back across the room, nudged by my strikes. Through the vinyl, my knuckles scream. The bag’s skin has wrinkled into creases, though who knows how that happened with my simple volley of blows.
Jab, cross, cross, kick, kick, kick, cross, kick, cross, kick, side elbow, jab, cross, cross, down elbow, cross, side elbow, knee, knee, knee, front kick, front kick, kick, kick, kidney shot, kidney shot, jab, cross, cross, jab, cross, kick, kick, kick, kick, kick, kick.
The bag is at the edge of the room now, threatening to damage the drywall. I take a few steps back, panting, breathless.
People always ask who’s face it is on the bag. Am I picturing my boss? Am I picturing my teachers? … am I picturing her?
I charge back in, inelegantly, not bothering to protect my face, and hit the bag again. And again. And again. My mind floods with a stream of cusses.
My violence lacks the sort of clarity that pictures a person where I strike. Maybe this bag is my world, the world I want to destroy so badly. Maybe it’s all those hopes and desires that I want to let go of. Maybe it's the way you said "I love you," or that you ever did. Maybe it’s the part of me that demands I suffer for a person I know I can’t have. Maybe it's the overclocked heart in my chest that refuses to get over her.
Or maybe this bag is my broken mirror.
