Credence

I can’t go home.

I grip the leather, clenching it in my fist, and everything—my new reality—starts sinking in.

It doesn’t matter where I go—how I change my surroundings or run from all the places and people I don’t want to see. I’m still me. Running, leaving, hiding…

There’s no escape.

As liquid heat spreads down my arm I fist my palm and hit the bag, my hand barely denting the leather. I do it again and again, my pathetic little punches growing harder, because I’m fucked up and tired and confused… I don’t know how to feel better.

I suck in air through my teeth, finally rearing back and swinging my fist into the bag. The chains creak as it tries to swing, but I still have my other arm wrapped around it.

Maybe I’ll decide to honor your parents’ wishes and keep you until you’re of age.

I grit my teeth, a sudden burst of energy flooding me, and I release the bag, step back, and swing again, planting my right fist into the bag.

At least until I see you laugh. The anger warms my body, and I throw another punch. Or yell or scream or cry or fight or joke, and all in more than nods and one-word answers.

I slam my fist again.

And again.

I growl. “We’ll be snowed in in eight,” I mock his words to me in a whisper.

I shove my fist into the bag two more times and then step back, swinging my back leg into the bag once. Then twice. And again.

And then I just let him leave and didn’t say anything, even when he instructed me on how he likes his damn bacon cooked. I mean, if someone is doing something nice for you—you know, like cooking breakfast—you don’t balk at how it’s cooked. You eat it.

God, I wish I had some vegan bacon to really make his day. Amusement pulls at my lips, but I force it back.

I keep hitting and kicking the bag, a light sweat grazing my brow as I think of all the things I could’ve responded with. Why does it bug me so much I didn’t get the last word?

Why do I let everything go and never say anything?

I throw my fist into the bag and someone is suddenly there, holding it from the other side.

“Hi,” Noah says, peering around the bag at me.

He looks amused, and I halt, standing up straight. Was he watching me? Was I talking to myself?

His eyes crinkle a little more, and I see a self-satisfied grin peek out. “Don’t stop,” he tells me.

The dark blue T-shirt sets off the color of his eyes, and the same baseball cap holds his hair back where it sits backward on his head. He and his father look a lot alike.

I drop my eyes and back off, breathing hard. The muscles in my stomach burn.

But he keeps egging me on. “Come on.” He pats the bag where my last punch landed. “He can piss off a saint. Why do you think I hung this punching bag up in the first place?”

I press my lips together, still not moving.

He sighs and stands up straight. “Okay. Are you making breakfast, then?”

I dig in my eyebrows, unable to stop myself, and twist my body, swinging my leg with full force into the punching bag. He shoves himself away from the bag just before my foot lands and stands back wide-eyed with his palms up. I watch the bag swing back and forth.

I wasn’t trying to hit him. It would’ve just been a happy coincidence.

But my legs still feel charged, and I almost wish my uncle would walk in right now, so I could ask him to hold the bag instead.

I’m angry.