Borgata - Book II #wattys2016

Chapter 8: Know Your Enemy

HEY EVERYONE!

Please do me a HUGE favor and vote, leave feedback, and share this with your friends if you enjoy my updates! :)

*

"Fico can suck my ass." - My sister, when asked what I should write at the beginning of this chapter. LMFAO.

*

Follow me on Twitter, Instagram, and Snapchat! Username is Katrock247 for all! ;)

* * *

Twenty minutes into this "Rocky" mood I had going on, and my knuckles were already raw and red. I'd taken breaks in-between, of course, but for the most part, I was a madwoman on crack and my hands were screaming for me to take it easy.

But I didn't stop. Perspiration trickled down my forehead and a roar left my throat as my fist collided again with the punching bag. The chain that it hung from swung back and forth.

"Fücking Fico"–Smack!–"and his fücking stupid àss–"Smack! Smack! –"mafia house." I struck the punching bag rapidly for a few seconds, and then slowed down. "GRRRRRRR!"

"You sure you don't want any wrap for those knuckles, bunny?" Ben shouted from the treadmill on the other side of the gym.

I didn't reply.

"Ok, never mind!" he yelled. Then, perhaps out of fear, he added, "You're doing great!"

"Hi, I'm Fico," I mocked in a deeper voice, stalking around the punching bag. I pretended to smoke a cigarette. "Don't disrespect me, woman. I'm the head honcho here. I'm Italian. I'm the King." I smacked my chest for emphasis. " Just kidding! I'm selling you to a fat man." I charged at the bag with my fists. Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack. I broke away, deepening my voice again. "Put this fücking slütty dress on that pretty much shows your vag. Meet the bîtchy entertainers who want to lick my dîck. Dance for me, slave. Leave Gout. Leave. Sit on my lap. Do as I say, puppy. Dog. Woman. Slüt."

I attacked the punching bag harder than ever before.

I reached a point where I couldn't punch anymore. Panting hard, I backed away from the punching bag. I looked around the gym, to find ever every man using the equipment staring at me.

Then I looked down at my hands, to find them bleeding profusely at the knuckles. I watched a thick droplet of blood slowly slide in between my fingers, and fall to the ground. My throat closed up and my chest felt like there was a weight on it.

I swayed on my feet, back into the punching bag, and hit the floor at a dead weight. Everything went black.

I was back in my old house with a knife that I'd stolen from the kitchen when my father wasn't looking. I grasped it hard in my trembling hands, staring at a cracked frame of my mother on my dresser, and absently running my hand over the large bruise on my upper arm.

Dad was in the other room, screaming drunkenly at someone on the phone about needing money, fast. There was a loud crash, and I expected he threw the phone. He started throwing things, one of which hit the outside of my wall and startled me. I heard his footsteps outside. Quickly, I stuffed the knife under my pillow. Dad threw open my door and came into my room, a storm of beer, rage, and violence. My chest tightened in fear.

"What the f-fück are you still doing here?" he demanded, stumbling towards me. "I thought you finally moved out, to l-live with that... fåggot boyfriend of yours."