Harold Beaumont's Bruises

Sparring Match

Harold's POV

Today is going to be shitty. Fists at my side, I harshly take an annoyed sigh that doesn't fill me up, but leaves me feeling just as empty as before. Agonizing slow, I have been repiecing Noley's broken heart by barely leaving her side. Deep down I know that it's impossible to perfectly fix it, but I'll die trying. Storming into the Marley gym with hunched shoulders, I fight to keep my angry gaze straight.

As usual everyone, fighters and trainers, stop what they're doing, and applaud me. Ugh. I hate all this recognition, I can't simply walk in like a normal fighter, and get my day started. I don't even gratefully acknowledge their admiration, but naturally Noley loves this isolation. Unfortunately, my brown eyes immediately finds a dirty blonde taking pictures of a shirtless fighter among the crowd. I suddenly feel awful, an intense grief that feels worse than any punch. Triggered by my misery, anger overcomes my emotions till all I can see is red for a moment.

A particular loud clapper stands idly in my way, each slap of his hands making me madder. Blood boiling, muscles aching with the need of an anger outlet, my arm shoots out and shoves him down hard. My heart drops before he lands on the ground. I just hate myself more for that stupid move.

"Sorry." I grumble through clenched teeth, helping the guy up. Not even waiting for a response I take off to my corner with my favorite ring. I toss my gym bag hard at the wall of lockers, the loud bang fueling my rage.

"Spar!" I roar, "I need a sparing partner!" I have to hit something. For a moment everyone in the gym freezes, the only motion are the forgotten punching bags swaying to a halt. My glaring eyes find Joey stiff and motionless too among the crowd, and her pretty face giving away how dishearten she is. It just makes me madder!

After the longest minute I've ever lived through, one of the trainers reluctantly volunteers by slowly walking up to me. My fists impatiently shake, the need for impact driving me nuts. I need release. I need to lessen this burdening rage smothering me from inside out, the only relief being hard collisions. I need it. I need it this very second or I might just implode.

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"Harry," Toby calls for my attention, but I continue to pound on the punching bag. Every slam of my fist making me feel a bit better. Each punch weighs down my arms with a tired ache, but I persist.

"Man, take a break from whamming on everything." Toby insists. Covered in a hard day's work of sweat, Toby's blonde head appears behind my swinging target, his taped up hands reaching out to stop my punching bag.

"I haven't finished with it." I growl, shoving at the bag. Toby doesn't stumble back from the force, but holds his ground with a frown, a very unToby like expression.

"Afternoon training is over for the day." Toby points out, gesturing to the abandoned equipment, empty benches and rings. We're the only the only two left in the entire gym. "You've been beating up just about everything that moves. You didn't take the lunch break either. Put your fists down."

"I want to keep practicing." I grunt, jabbing the bag.

"Fine. Then lets spare. I'll tire you out." Toby playfully challenges, his red lips growing into a smirk.

"You're on." The ropes stretches as we climb up into the boxing ring. I try to ignore the stain of rust color blood from earlier today from clocking one of the other boxers in a sparing match. The stain makes my skin crawl with shame, and my stomach churn.