The Loudest Minds

Chapter 8

Eli's gauze-covered fists slapped on the taut black punching bag. Chalk dust had turned the air into a haze, like someone had turned on a fog machine. She sneezed.

There was something about the boxing gym that managed to calm Rose down. Maybe it was because there was rhythm everywhere. Patterns. Familiarity. A deafened tune that few could pick up.

Eli could hear it too, all too clearly. His eyes saw the punching bag, but in his mind he pictured himself smashing Jockstrap over the head with his cello repeatedly to the beat of Saint-Saëns' Le Cygne. Very therapeutic.

"Hey, Rosie." She looked up from her novel. A sheen of sweat covered Eli's arms and torso, and the scabs on his knuckles had broken underneath the gauze. Blood soaked through the wrapping and rolled down his fingers, dripping off of his fingertips to make constellation-like patterns on the gym floor. She cocked her head slightly. "Come here for a second."

She dogeared her page and set her book down next to her bag before ungracefully climbing to her feet. She warily approached the punching bag at Eli's side. She could smell copper and iron, bloodred and permeating.

"I'm going to teach you some things, and I want you to pay attention," he said. She shook her head rapidly. She didn't want to be any more dangerous than she already was. He sighed. "Listen, Rose. I'm not going to be around in Ireland. You don't know how to defend yourself. You sure as hell have the potential to, but you need to build up strength--"

She punched him in the stomach. Hard.

He bent over with a strained oomph and clutched at his abdomen. "Okay, okay, the strength is there too. Technique. I meant to say technique, you barbaric woman," he gasped out. She blinked when he looked up at her. "You're evil, seriously."

She shrugged nonchalantly. I know.

"Anyways," he started as he straitened up, "I'm going to start you with some simple stuff, just basic defensive attacks. Stand here, like this." She mimicked his stance, her feet hip-width apart and slightly staggered. "You want to evenly distribute your weight on both feet, but don't stand flat-footed or you'll be too stiff." She nodded.

"Now, you want to keep your abs tense. It's almost like a wall. It'll prevent major pain if you get punched in the stomach. Also, if you get hit, absorb the blows. Don't step into them." She raised an eyebrow and smirked. He faltered. "What?"

She picked her phone up off the ground.

Why are you assuming I'm going to get attacked or hurt?

"I--I'm not. What? No. What?"

It's Ireland. They're supposed to be pretty chill in Ireland.

"Whatever. You never know."

Why now?

"Because."

Eli...

"Because you won't talk."

Her eyes widened and she paused. He ran a hand through his hair. "You won't talk, and that scares the living shít out of me, Rose. Your voice is your primary defense, and you won't use it. So if I can't make you talk, the least I can do is teach you something to protect yourself with."

Suddenly her father was in front of her like a dream. Your voice can always be your weapon. Got that, Rosie? She shook her head rapidly to dispel the image. She looked back up and Eli was there again, staring at her with eyes of chaos. "Rose..."

She turned from him and lashed at the punching bag, her lower shin coming in contact with a satisfying slap. Her fists whipped out, pummeling into the thick leather. She let out a frustrated scream as she battered her limbs until fresh wounds opened on her knuckles. They looked like Eli's. All this time he stared in shock.