I take my time to change into my gym gear and wrap the safety bandages around my knuckles when I reach The Glade. Sitting on the bench outside the practise ring, I let my eyes scan all the people inside the gym idly.
"Are you planning to sit there all day?" my instructor barks from inside the ring.
He looks as bright and sunny as ever, with a crystallised scowl that's probably become his resting face now. He's sweaty, the entire upper half of his maroon t-shirt is drenched so that it looks almost black. That means he's been here for some time today and is eager to be done with me.
"Stop nagging, old man." I grin, bending under the ropes flanking the ring, "I have better places to be too, but we can't always have what we want, right?"
"I'm not even that old." he grumbles, mostly to himself, "Why would she call me that?"
"I wouldn't if you told me what your name was." I remark cockily, getting into the correct stance.
He turns his back to me and shakes his head- picking up the large, curved rectangular pads that he makes me punch and kick alternately after warming up.
"Give me a hundred high jumps." my instructor orders in an indifferent tone.
"I normally do seventy five-" I begin to protest.
I'm cut off rudely mid sentence, "And fifty push ups after that. I trust that you already completed your daily running requirement before coming here."
I'm still trying to process the fact that I need to do extra jumps to warm up today. If my workouts weren't responsible for the lovely shape my body was taking, I wouldn't have given a single fuck.
"Fast!"
"You don't always have to be so rude, you know." I mumble bitterly.
"I wouldn't have to be if you weren't so bloody annoying." He replies stiffly, pickling up a bottle of water from the bench, "You may begin."
I nod tersely, swallowing as I mentally prepare myself for hell.
Focusing my concentration straight ahead I exhale slowly before leaping into the air, using the momentum of my jump to power my next so that I'm jumping in a kind of spring motion. My legs fold every time I'm airborne, my heels brushing against my bottom.
I feel tired by the seventieth jump since my body has become conditioned to doing seventy five but I push myself, making a strong effort not to lose the momentum I've built.
I'm exhausted by the time I'm done with fifty pushups and a couple of other warm up exercises , and that's just part of the warmup. I lie on the floor in a sweaty heap and breath heavily, revelling in the coolness of the cement floor against my sweltering hot skin.
"Up!" my instructor calls out.
"Just give me a minute." I point out one finger.
"If you want to do a few burpees after-"
I'm on my feet immediately. Shaking my limbs vigorously to make the collected lactic acid in them.
"Burpees?" I chuckle forcefully, "What burpees? I thought we were going to do some kickboxing drills now."
I watch keenly as my instructor's mouth curves up into a hint of a smile in response. It's a weird thing to witness- like finding honey in a rock.
We spar for the next half an hour, going through a diverse pattern of drills. Old guy here thinks he's very smart, shuffling the order of the drills and changing them without warning to keep me on my toes but I'm smarter. I've learnt to observe the patterns he tends to keep up, they repeat every two ten days or so, and anticipate his next move.
"Come on, old man, surely you can't get any more unpredictable than this?" I jeer lightly, holding my fisted hands in front of my face as I stare into his eyes.
He pulls back slightly before barreling towards me and raining on me with a slew of left and right jabs and uppercuts that I manage to hold my ground against with little effort.
The moment he holds back for a split second longer, I dive into the opening and go in for a strong switch kick to his ribcage whose impact throws off his bearing a little. The kick gives me the space to maneuver my body to the side and use the momentum to power an uppercut to the corner of his jaw.
"Tell me one thing," I breathe out, as I traipse around the ring to remain just out of reach, "You served overseas, right? In the Middle East I'm guessing, judging from your age."
My trainer narrows his eyes ever so slightly, his jaw clenches, but he doesn't respond.
"All that bloodshed and endless toil in the dry wastelands must have been fucking discouraging." I prod on, "I mean the outcome wasn't even fruitful. The middle eastern terror outfits still exist and they somehow keep getting reinforcements, while you have to watch your fellow men die for nothing. Like didn't you ever just get the urge to nuke them or something."
He steps back and eases his stance, looking at me like I'm spewing absolute nonsense. He looks almost concerned.
"There are laws that condemn that." he says finally in a stiff tone, regaining his stance and coming at me.
"I know that," I emphasise, focusing on blocking his moves, "But isn't it just human to let yourself delve in certain fantasies. Like maybe, smuggling in uranium and being done with the war once and for all?"
The next thing I know, he slips his leg around my foot and I'm flat on my back. The wind abandons my lungs as my back slaps the firm rubbery surface of the practise ring. Black dots swim before my eyes for a few seconds before my vision stills again and I see the overhead lamps glaring down at me.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my side. It's a good thing that my sunkissed olive skin doesn't bruise easily or it would have been one nasty patch of purple down my side.
"What the fuck was that?" I growl angrily, turning up to look at my smug faced instructor, "That's against the rules!"
"Get up, we're moving on to a more freestyle kind of fighting." He says simply, "I think your kickboxing skills have improved fairly now. As for rules, no one is going to follow rules outside the ring. You are learning these arts to defend effectively and not for coloured belts and medals."
"That's um-" I frown slightly, narrowing my eyes, "Quite sudden, isn't it?"
I get up on my knees, breathing heavily, before standing up slowly and making my way to the bench on the side where my gym bag sits. I take out my lime green tupperware bottle and uncap it, bringing it to my mouth and tipping it slightly.
Just when I had started getting the hang of holding my own in a bout of kickboxing after several days of repeatedly practising all the fighting techniques, this fucking old guy wanted to switch up my routine?
Fighting isn't something that comes naturally to me. It has demanded a fucking shitload of discipline and effort from me to reach my current level of proficiency. I am an animal of routine and consistency, and combat training is by far the only activity I have ever undertaken that is unpredictable, draining and has required more than twenty one days for me to pick up properly. It makes me feel very inadequate and I hate the feeling.
I stand there, morosely eyeing my instructor as he walks up to me and asks me to take off the bandages from my hands.
"Learn to filter out your thoughts before you speak, little girl." he whispers quietly as he brushes past my shoulder to catch my attention, "The Glade might be a place for army veterans and serving members but you better remember that the war abroad hasn't been pretty. You don't want to be garnering the wrong kind of attention here by spewing shit."
My trepidation slowly slithers away as I realise that this entire thing wasn't about me as much as it was about warning me.
I grin slyly to myself, running my eyes over my surroundings to see how many people must have heard my jeering before. If my old man was so flustered by what I said, it meant I was laying the right bait.
Unravelling my bandage, I roll it a little shabbily and re-enter the fighting ring where my instructor is waiting for me.
He regards me with a weird expression, knitting his brow as he gruffly asks, "You really think you're very smart, don't you?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do." I reply, nodding primly.
He mutters a few curses under his breath, his face turning pinker by the second as he looks over my head. I barely catch a couple of words like little and devil.
Exhaling loudly, he shakes his head and motions for me to come forward, "Let's start."
For the next forty minutes we go over the basic maneuvers. My instructor remains stubbornly silent through most of that time, speaking even fewer than his usual three to four sentences.
When he dismisses me, he says quietly, "It's Lester."
Eyeing him quizzically, I am about to ask him who or what Lester is when he rolls his eyes and grunts, "That's my name, stupid girl. Don't call me old again."
Right, that's what it's all about.
With a smirk painted on my face, I pick up my gym bag from the bench next to the fighting ring and quickly make my way to the changing rooms to dry off and change my clothes.
I finish my business quickly, no longer wanting to linger around for any more time at The Glade alone. The place itself is rather shady since it was built inside an abandoned shoe factory on the outskirts of the town and was mostly frequented by large, intimidating men. Some of them had telling scars on their visible body parts that they carried like medals for several years of service for their homeland and others were younger, more cleaner versions of the same.
Just as I am about to push open the door, I hear a series of footsteps outside that are becoming fainter and fainter by the second.
My body goes still for a moment. No one comes near the women's room since very few women train at The Glade. I wonder if I should call Dad just in case.
Gathering my things, I shake my shoulders to loosen the muscles there before opening the door.
There's a bright lavender post-it stuck to the door, which I recognize right away. It is the chit I deliberately dropped near the bench outside my practise ring as bait. So someone had been here, and that someone clearly recognized the word on it. Biting back a triumphant smile, I glance around to see if anyone's watching. Obviously, no one is. Or more specifically, no one in plain sight is.
Everyone inside The Glade is busy working out or practising some form of combat in the many practise rings. The bright overhead lights make the place warmer than it is outside and everyone is covered in layers of perspiration. In general, the air smells like a mix of cheap deodorant, sweat and floor cleaning liquid.
I return my attention to the lavender paper in my hand. The word maghfirat is written on the chit in my handwriting in black block letters on the upper left corner of the paper. I peel it off the laminated door and inspect it closely to see if the person who picked it up has left any telling sign. There's nothing odd about it, no weird folds or tears and not a single new drop of ink.
With a quiet sigh, I pocket the post-it hastily and make my way to the door that leads outside. It's abundantly clear that whoever the person is, they don't want to reveal their identity yet.
Running my fingers through my ponytail, I open the door to step out into the dimly lit compound that flanks The Glade. I see a shadow running around the corner, almost as if whoever it belongs to was waiting for me. I fist my fingers and stand there, contemplating whether to follow or not.
"But now that they know I'm looking for them, they'll try other ways to seek me out. Right?" I reason with myself.
I'm about to make my way around the corner to investigate, against better judgement when a familiar car rolls into the compound and comes to a stop near me.
"Hey kiddo!" Merde waves brightly, "You're giving out lilac vibes today."
I pull a face. Lilac vibes, seriously?
"And you're giving off a soft blue aura." I reply sarcastically.
"Wait, how did you know?"
I shake my head in disbelief.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, glancing at the shadowy corner one last time before walking towards the car, "I didn't know you were going to come and pick me up today."
"The agency hasn't sent the usual monthly groceries this time. They'll be coming next week so your father gave me a list of essentials to pick up from the grocery store." Merde replies, "And since I was going out with the car anyway, he asked me to pick you up too."
"Right."
Phineas Merde is a sheep in wolf's clothing. Not the other way around, mind you. He's a towering man with a height of more than six feet and is built heavily. But he's a real sweetheart and one of the eccentric people I've come across in the army. He loves reading auras, a skill he's apparently mastered after scores of buzzfeed quizzes and articles, absolutely adores Disney movies and despite his undying love for cheese and smoothies is lactose intolerant. But that didn't deny the fact that he could remorselessly kill a person with his bare hands if the need be.
I open the passenger door and climb into the car, before carefully tossing my gym bag onto the back seat.
The same shadow as before is lingering in the darkness as we drive out of the compound surrounding the shoe factory. I squint to see if I can get a better view of the person but it is too dark to see them properly.
I blow out a wisp of air from my mouth concedingly and sit back. I'm going to find out who. Soon.
•><•
Hi everyone, how are you? And more importantly, how are you liking the story so far?
Do vote, comment, share and don't forget to spread the love!☆
Also, I'm really waiting for winter to come so that I can curl up under my blankets and not feel excessively warm. I'm the kind of person who likes to sleep with a blanket and it gets really annoying in summer.