@fbnathaniel
“Who does he think he is?”
Bandaged fists pound against vinyl. The angry smacks of a punching bag echo throughout the empty training room. He’s been alone since practice ended two hours ago, when the boxing team gave up on having Samuel call it a day.
“Calling me an ANIMAL?”
Harder. Faster. Stronger.
“Calling me a BEAST?”
Enchantress or not, preemptive punishment is a horrible concept. Sweat trickles down his forehead as he hops backwards, the odd arch to his feet giving him extra agility. Shoes cramp his feet and make him into a klutz -- a laughing stock falling to his hands and knees if he’s not careful. He lashes out again and again, now spinning with kicks against the punching bag. Samuel trades words for savage snarls; it’s easier to release stress when nobody is there to judge.
Finally, his claws slash at the punching bag. Sand filters out, hissing over his grunting and growling. His chest heaves. He surveys the damage. He wants to surrender to the intoxication that comes with release. Shut his brain off. Give up. Crush the rose. Lose control.
And be FREE.
