Return to Somewhat Normal
Punch the bag. Don’t think. Just keep punching the bag. Mom. Dad. Grandmother. Work. Bills. None of it matters now. Just keep punching. Punch until you’re out breath and can’t lift your arms again. Punch until you’re covered in sweat and your knees are shaking. Keep punching until you’re so exhausted you can’t think about anything but a shower and bed so you don’t take home the stress and unleash it on those who don’t deserve it.
The dojo is empty. The last class left over an hour ago. In the past, Miguel and Hawk would have hung around and help clean up. But things had never been right again after that party. Miguel had left to be a foreign exchange student, then Hawk had to take a break to get his grades back up before he lost his placement at Stanford. It left just me to keep things going.
Maybe that’s why things were never right again. Deep down we all knew that I was never on their level. They always had futures and I was always going to have to struggle. They’d go off to college, and karate would become just something they did in high school. And I’ll always be the guy cleaning up behind them. Even when something good happened, it had to come with more struggle. More fights. More pain. Everything I did ended up poison. There was a moment there, after Granpa’s inheritance was settled, where things were looking up. I had money to pay for Mom’s treatments, for college, to get the dojo really up and running, but I should have known that was too good to be true. Well, maybe Dad’s happy now. Now he can compete with the lifestyle the LaRussos’ lead and not constantly run away.
And I get stuck with a house with a busted water heater, leaking roof, that’s in arrears $3500 to the HOA and with a $15000 tax bill I now have to figure out how to pay that I can’t even sell due to some stupid clause Granpa put in the will when he was leaving everything to Dad.
Don’t think about that now. Just keep punching.
BAG! I hit the bag hard enough to knock it over, stumbling and falling to my knees, gasping for air.
“You’re not punching effectively. All you’re going to do like that is wear yourself out and make yourself weak.”
I scramble to my feet and spin around. John Kreese is leaning again the entrance way as if he still owned the place. In my rage, I guess I didn’t hear the door open.
“What do you want?” I snarled.
“Relax, kid,” he held up his hands. “I was just in town and wanted to talk to your Dad. Where is he?”
“Fuck if I know,” I shrugged. “I don’t give a shit where he is or what he’s doing.”
He looks at me curiously, bunt not coldly as usual and his next words don’t have their usual bite, “What’s going on Robby?”
“Same old shit where @everyonesfavoritegoldenboy and my mom is concerned. I’ve just finally accepted it. Try the LaRussos’ house. If he’s in town he’s there or moping at a bar near there. Now, if you excuse me, I’m a little busy to see you out.” I right the bag and start punching it again.
He doesn’t leave, though. He just keeps watching me. Eventually he moves to hold the bag still while I keep hitting it harder and harder.
