Way Down We Go

Almost Safe

(Song you can listen to while reading: Look After You, The Fray)

La Push, Washington
The garage is half-dark, the single old lightbulb above me buzzing faintly. The concrete floor is cold beneath my feet, and the air smells of dust and motor oil. In front of me hangs a red punching bag, heavy and and unmoving, as if mocking me.

When I asked Mom if she could buy me a punching bag, I never thought she'd actually say yes. But she seemed almost thrilled by the idea and agreed without much convincing. Better for me to let out my "aggressions" on a sack than on other people. At least I couldn't hurt the bag.
What I didn't tell her is that I need it to train for self-defense, not to vent anger. But it's better this way. In her eyes, I don't need self-defense.
Not when I'm the threat.

I raise my fists the way Sam showed me.
Elbows close to my body, no wild swings.
Shoulders loose. "Not with strength, but with technique." And breathing.
Always keep breathing.

My knuckles are already burning after the first hit, but I force myself not to slow down.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Right.
Keep the rhythm.

The bag swings back, nearly slamming into my forehead, and I jerk out of the way just in time. My heart pounds, but it feels good. Real training, not just sitting around doing nothing.

I start again. This time I pay attention to my stance. Not too wide, not too narrow. Sam said posture is half the work. So I turn my foot as I strike, feeling the power flow through my whole body. A dull thud echoes through the room, stronger than before. A brief smile crosses my face.

The bag sways lazily as sweat trickles down my neck. My lungs burn, but I refuse to give in.
I need this. The adrenaline, the tension, the steady pounding in my ears. For a moment, everything else goes quiet. No pressure, no fear, no thoughts, just movement.

I take a step back, raise my hands again. My body moves on its own, I just have to follow.
A noise breaks my rhythm. First a soft thud, then the squeak of the garage door.
Cold night air rushes in, crawling across my sweaty skin. I freeze mid-motion, fists still up.

"Uh... what the hell are you doing?"

Shit.
Slowly I turn around and see the last person I wanted to face right now. Jared stands in the doorway, arms crossed, his face marked with open confusion. His eyes flick over my flushed cheeks, the strands of dark brown hair falling loose from my ponytail, and finally to the punching bag still swaying back and forth.

"Training for a zombie apocalypse I don't know about?" Jared leans against the doorframe, a crooked grin on his face.

"Very funny." I drop my fists and try not to gasp, but my breathing is way too fast. My cheeks are burning, and I know how I must look: sweaty, messy hair, caught red-handed.

He steps further into the garage, eyes flickering from me to the punching bag still moving slightly.
"So? What's going on here? Trying to become Black Widow, or is this something I should worry about?"

I bite my lip. Part of me wants to brush it off, come up with a good lie. I promised myself I'd keep it a secret from him. But something in his voice isn't teasing; it's genuinely curious. I take a deep breath and run a hand through my loose hair.
"Okay, but don't get mad. Sam's been... teaching me a little self-defense." The words tumble out faster than I mean them to.

Jared blinks, surprised, but not in a bad way.
His brows lift, but there's no anger on his face.
Just thoughtfulness. "Sam, huh?" A beat of silence, then he nods slowly. "Okay. Honestly, that sounds pretty smart."

I stare at him, disbelieving. "Wait a minute... you're not mad?"

"Why would I be?" He shrugs. "If it helps you feel safer, then good. It certainly doesn't hurt. I'm kind of surprised I didn't think of it first."