Hey, Mister Marshall (St. Mary's Rebels 4)

Because I know if I go to talk about it with him, he won’t listen.

I know that.

So I take care of him in these silent and passionate ways.

And even though he comes down my throat only a few seconds later, as if he didn’t blow in his condom, he still doesn’t relax. He still doesn’t go back to being happy Alaric.

I don’t think even working out calms him down on those nights.

And he does a lot of that after putting me to sleep for a few hours, before the time comes for me to sneak back to my dorm.

I usually wake up and let him be while lying there in the bed, my chest tight, my eyes stinging with tears. I don’t want him to feel like I’m intruding on his space, in his downtime. If pounding a heavy bag gets him out of these dark moods, then fine.

But it’s so hard.

So hard to lie there and pretend I don’t hear the jabs and the pained grunts. So hard not to go to him and ask him to stop. Ask him to talk to me. To listen.

Because this isn’t right. This isn’t the way to deal with things, to deal with all these demons inside of him.

This isn’t the way.

And tonight, it’s much harder than ever.

I’m not sure what happened but he’s been tense all day; I saw him during school.

And when I got here, his mood hadn’t improved. He was agitated and antsy while he kissed me and then fucked me on the couch. And no, he wasn’t rough with me by any means but I could feel that something was eating at him.

It’s still eating at him.

He’s been at his heavy bag for almost an hour now.

He keeps beating at it and beating at it, and I know if he doesn’t stop, he’s going to break something. Either that heavy bag will fall out of the ceiling or crack in two, or his bones will tear apart.

When a particularly angry grunt followed by a pant sounds through the cottage, I get up.

I climb out of the bed at my own peril.

I know there’s a chance that he might not respond well to me interrupting him.

But it’s a risk I have to take for his own good.

Besides, all I want is for him to stop. That’s it. I’m not going to have that discussion again with him, about his work and responsibilities. I know that’s not going to go down well. Maybe I can visit Mo next weekend and talk to her about it, about maybe devising a plan or an intervention of some sort. But for now, all I want is for him to stop and come back to bed, and get some sleep maybe.

With that hope, I walk into the living room and find him going at his heavy bag.

A blurry silhouette because I don’t have my glasses on.

I walk closer until he becomes clear.

At some point he’s taken off his shirt and I can see the muscles of his body darkened and drenched with sweat. I see the slick skin of his back and his shoulders stretching and relaxing over his dense bones as he delivers jab after jab.

“Alaric,” I call out to his back.

But I guess he can’t hear me over his panting breaths and his grunts and the thwacks.

So I go closer and try again. “Alaric, stop.”

I know this time he hears me — his back tenses slightly and his jabs lose their steady rhythm — but he ignores me and keeps going. I go around him and come to stand directly in his line of vision.

“Alaric, stop. Please.”

This time my voice has no effect. His eyes are trained on the heavy bag and his fists are furiously at work.

I’m not even sure how he’s able to keep going because now that I look at his face, I realize that it’s dripping with sweat. Thick rivulets are raining down from his hair and getting into his eyes. They travel the sides of his face and flow down to his veined neck, and his mountain-like shoulders.

Every time he rams his taped fist into the bag, sweat flies around him, his chest heaving and his jaw clenching.

“Alaric, please,” I say, my voice all grave and tense. “Stop.” When he still doesn’t, I take a step closer to him. “Please. You have to stop. Just please. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Yet again, he ignores me and keeps going, and having no choice at all, I approach him.

And put a hand on his arm.

As soon as I do, he jerks to a stop, snapping his head to face me. “What the fuck are you doing?”

My fingers burn at the touch of his sweaty and heated skin but I keep my hand there. “I was just trying to —”

“Are you fucking insane?” he growls, snatching my hand off his arm, gripping it in his fingers.